A Forgotten Man
This ungrateful city speaks slowly,
not out of shame because its hands are full of lies, but because its heart is
burdened with forgetfulness and ingratitude. Ever since I saw her, I have been
crying bitterly. I cry for my precious plant, for I am a man of the wild. I
know the sound of animals, but I am not as pure as them. Believe me; the bears
are not rough or brown, but rather they are delicate and pink balloons, and the
owl is neither blind nor jinxed, but rather has a silver heart with which it
sees the truth. I wish you knew how friendly it is. It used to talk to me about
the stories of my ancestors.
I am now without roots, without a
home, a forgotten man in every sense of the word. I was living in a warm hut
under a tree. I laughed every morning, and I often sat comfortably by a pond
whose name I no longer remember because this city slapped me with its cruel
hands and made me forget everything beautiful. I forgot my color and my voice.
I am now a forgotten man, without color, without voice, and without story. I am
now a very sad man. I do not know anything about spring and I do not remember
my beloved trees. I am now a very forgotten man.
