Life Without Life

The old man sat by the river. Blue eyes gazed into the still, translucent surface of memories. They waited, waited to catch at least one sign of life. Nothing... A silent water surface without life.

"Waterfowl, where are they, the croaking of frogs is not heard... Birds no longer land... The soul of this river is frozen, the heart beats no more, only water that flows wearily, dark stones at its shallowest part, and yellow grass..."

The squeal of factory beasts nearby. A few moments later, the green liquid clouded the river in blue eyes.

"They've released poison again, something green and cyanide... Every day, when dusk embraces the light, they do this..."

Images of memories. A few years ago they came, from afar. Music, the oaths of some people, hosts from the big city that they wouldn't touch anything, and declarations of love and oaths of those who came from afar, that this would be paradise, much lovelier than it was then, and it was an untouched paradise back then, for blue eyes, for his grandson and granddaughter, for every being the river was life, a resting place, peace, and harmony.

No more people, except those in the steel structure on the other shore releasing poison into the lifeless river. Home for some other people, people of greed and money, money and greed, home for a civilization without a home.

Birds fly in the mind, alight on tears on the face. Fish spawn in memories. The dead surface of the river is silent, petrified before the crime of false progress that erases all that is life.

A sigh from old chests. Memories of a life that is no more. The oaths of those to whom nothing is sacred inhale tired lungs. The sound of heavy footsteps, a dull and steady beat of a stick on the gravelly shore accompanying a heavy and uneven gait. The last spasms of life in a poisoned paradise still alive only in mind and heart. Blue eyes disappear into the mist of factory chimneys.

Igor Tintor