In the colors of a Van Gogh is the destruction of a city, the cries of millions of people but they are not there.
dismantled a factory, or perhaps growing, standing next to a crane. But no one driving. A fire burning out of the bags of garbage that was a pomp for stray raises becoming more of a smoke color to yellow to black. It does not warm anybody.
There is a kind of courtyard, enclosed and poorly with only one exit, inside there is concrete, but grass, wood and clay, and a hole in the middle. And there's no one sitting. lacking the giant who should be there, as on a mattress with his weight to bend the earth. Not because it is gigantic, only because it is sitting there.
In the foreground on the left of a bridge, up and down. It collapsed for some mysterious force that is no falling over, while the fence a few meters, as the factory and other buildings in the district will challenge the centuries of this eternal afternoon in an orange color to yellow.
I'll never see anyone come to fix this bridge, the poles of the fences do not rot and never will no cat in the garden where perhaps one day very far back in time, a giant he was sitting. Or was it a passing herd of mice.
leave us alone with time, just as it is the only city that I mentioned, not even a poor dog under the bridge, closing the eyes under the stifling heat of an eternal day.
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