You. So capable of smiling while you saw the bronze block of the rudder of an old ship, coming from far to die on the beach of your hometown, in Bangladesh. Serrabas, you looked at me and talked to me. You told me you had a wife, a son and good luck. You told me that you were happy. Because you had a good family and a job that you were able to do. Serrar bronze, loading steel, destroying the compact form that once sailed through unlimited oceans, to turn its fragments into tools to work the land, knives and forks. And I really saw you happy. I knew you were because, still sawing, you were excited talking about the last mischief of your little one and how happy you were because, while you worked, he was at school. And because, excited for my unexpected presence, you insisted on inviting me to visit your home and share the food of yours. Rice, Lord, you said, rice is what I can offer you. And you added But it's a good rice and my wife cooks it very well. I did not accept your invitation. I was not able to do it. I thought, perhaps erroneously, that I could not deprive you, neither you nor to yours, of the food that, with so much effort, you earned. You didn't bother you for it. Said On another occasion it will surely be. And I wished that you were right and that other occasion came. We wish ourselves good light on the road and say goodbye with a smile. He RIS RAS From your mountain cut it accompanied me to the exit door and even much further.
Bronze and rice
