Wheat

It was the time for hope. Here, the new wheat had born rocked by the wind of June, dry as our flourishing desert and  and wishing by the owner, greedy in front of their weakness, sometimes fake and malicious. That winter, also thirsty and unbalance had worried our peasant, whose family had passed hungry and they saw their misery which was increased, not only by people who were met to drive towards their horizon; also, inseminated poor who tied their lives with the immediacy.

Why a hundred years later, they avoid the old and changed funny group who had helped them when their great parents had came out from the Middle East?

Although that afternoon and evening, the wind and human threats arrived with fire or storm, inseminated with dry vegetables, could remind them those far off times, why we should close our present happiness, fighting against these Prophets and their bites, inflicted by their dogs, faithful and submissive with their narcotic money.

The river was more dirty and smaller than ever, but nobody looked like take care about that changeable river bed,  controlled pipe to exclusive wealth. We're dreaming their eternal current without taking care of the last muddy dam which are stopping every aim to share a World. Where are also the dreamed beaches, anchored on flying sands?

Did you know that boat which flyng over the stones? Could it be a nice image, wasn't it? You must know that boat which was broken when a new opportunity had been opened in that exiled year. A nice beach, a nice knowledge of sailing but the hard wind drove you in front of the island, rounded by silence that was accepted