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I took a walk around the village the other day, just to see what goes on around. Not so much, apparently. They say a lot of birds died in the fire, and their forest is black now, their home. Just like the seagulls who died in the hail storm back in the city during summer. The color of autumn is not as dramatic as I expected. Maybe not yet, the seasons are shifting lately for the global warming. Or maybe the trees are different, pretty much as everything else.

We met a man at the cafe last night, we went to Alvaro’s for snacks and drinks. Antonio was his name I guess, he’s a friend. He treated us for another glass of wine. He doesn’t speak English very well, but I listened to him with great attention; he was talking about the fire, and how the peasants and the villagers started the fire themselves. The forest was dry, and the wind was strong–just the perfect condition to turn it into a disaster. Sounds too harsh to be true. Didn’t they think of the birds and bugs when they were setting the woods on fire?! The sheep and cows died in the cheese factory, who thought of them?! How about the old trees?! They definitely haven’t of the humans.

The scariest thing is that I run out of things to write soon, or to create. What if I run out of ideas?! That will be, yet again, another disaster. I sometimes crave for grapes, not just any kind, not the ones you buy from the supermarket; I might be addicted to the grapes hanging on the side of the back roads and dirt paths around the village. I could always write about the magnificent taste of the grapes, could always draw the vineyards and the olive gardens.

25.Oct.17 – Góis, Portugal


Author iman

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