Every early morning, in that silent village, echoes a guttural scream of pain – deep and too human pain – and a desperate cry of fright. There are no more songs coming from the mosques, all of them empty, raped, humiliated, nor the bells ringing from the only flogged and quiet church. But there is that guttural scream, wet, strong, like the sound of death perpetrated by executioners in their medieval foolish guillotines in front of stunned and passive crowds.
He opens his eyes, ah, as if the nightmare had ended, and his hands are still stained with blood, wet, sticky and vivid with that blood, those hands do not sleep ever, got its own life, own time, stopped at totalitarian and nationalist speeches full of liars. Those hands have embraced such speeches with conviction. Those same hands which kneaded the bread dough, those same hands. Those same hands that, with a crude and rude delicacy, stuffed pies with cheese. Those hands which could make pastries filled with apple pulp or nuts. Murderous hands, hands that bleed cumulative guilty every early morning, inexorably. Forever, maybe.
His cry tries to be a claim to life, the lost, hated and miserable life that no longer exists in that village. There are people, strangers united by any ethnic group, human robots that walk to and fro without making noise. Beings who occupied the gaps left by the war in that village. These people sometimes smile, actually they smile without smiling, and never cry. It seems that no one sleeps there because of such large stones in their pillows and mattresses in their thorns, besides the weight of the dry hearts. And there is always that cry, that cry of the man whose hands are constantly dripping blood, that poor man who once left himself and came to believe in others, in weird orders of someone else, who accepted weapons and the hatred that were put in his hands, that man who believed in false slogans and false accusations and looked at their neighbors with suspicion, the same neighbors who used to buy his bread, the same neighbors who used to invite him to dinner when his loneliness beat his breast without clemency.
In that nowadays silent village, this early morning the cry is even more acute. Unable to cope with his unbearable despair, the man cuts his bloody hands off with a homemade guillotine. Crying in front of the unbelievable finding of, even so, not being free from the blame, he buries his hands in his garden as if they were seeds. Seeds, perhaps, of a world without lies, without hatred, without murderous hands. Then, he showers them with the proper blood dripping from his wrists and finally sleeps like a human again. At least, at that moment.
Since then, the village no more produces any kind of sound and its aurora continues to be silent and gray, as an unforgivable sin.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário