Stories and News No. 706
I read that Ioan Popa, a 52 years old homeless, was beaten to death by a 22 years old guy from Milan, Italy. In according to the police, October 14 night, the man was murdered in front of a pub because he wanted to pet the Italian’s dog, then helped by his friends to hide the homicide.
All this and much more, happens and continues to happen on the general silence.
Silence.
Silence of the last people of this world, who have no voice…
As the dog.
I am the dog, now.
The dog of the failure caress.
I am the one who saw everything and, unlike you, free to drop the stolen blood, I feel all weight on my back.
It's my fault.
I make it mine.
Indeed, if I had not been there, the man would not have violated the border.
For a dog’s pet.
And if people die for such a fleeting contact with equally insignificant creatures, you know how does obsession for distances is vain?
Between us?
Yes, I'm the dog.
And I'll take the blame.
Just because I was there.
And I have not done anything to stop death.
I am part of it, as the fragment of a puzzle.
And well, believe me, there are no particular overs and supporting characters, theatrical negligible trappings and forgettable colors in the background.
The picture is a murder.
And when the journey to the end of a life instantly accelerate in a whirl of dull anger, it is like being the victim of the backwash on a putrid pit.
It drags us all along.
Then I'm guilty.
Me, the dog.
But you and the other too.
Who is looking, or simply listening.
Who does not find the courage.
And who does not know where to look.
Who strikes the very first.
And who knew that sooner or later it would happen.
This is a silent confession, I know.
Dogs see, but do not speak.
As walls and windows, clouds and leaves, roads and rain.
As mere spectators worldwide.
But this does not mean we cannot write.
Our words are to be found below.
They fall, because too heavy.
They are all still there.
Down.
On the ground.
Read other stories about racism.
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I read that Ioan Popa, a 52 years old homeless, was beaten to death by a 22 years old guy from Milan, Italy. In according to the police, October 14 night, the man was murdered in front of a pub because he wanted to pet the Italian’s dog, then helped by his friends to hide the homicide.
All this and much more, happens and continues to happen on the general silence.
Silence.
Silence of the last people of this world, who have no voice…
As the dog.
I am the dog, now.
The dog of the failure caress.
I am the one who saw everything and, unlike you, free to drop the stolen blood, I feel all weight on my back.
It's my fault.
I make it mine.
Indeed, if I had not been there, the man would not have violated the border.
For a dog’s pet.
And if people die for such a fleeting contact with equally insignificant creatures, you know how does obsession for distances is vain?
Between us?
Yes, I'm the dog.
And I'll take the blame.
Just because I was there.
And I have not done anything to stop death.
I am part of it, as the fragment of a puzzle.
And well, believe me, there are no particular overs and supporting characters, theatrical negligible trappings and forgettable colors in the background.
The picture is a murder.
And when the journey to the end of a life instantly accelerate in a whirl of dull anger, it is like being the victim of the backwash on a putrid pit.
It drags us all along.
Then I'm guilty.
Me, the dog.
But you and the other too.
Who is looking, or simply listening.
Who does not find the courage.
And who does not know where to look.
Who strikes the very first.
And who knew that sooner or later it would happen.
This is a silent confession, I know.
Dogs see, but do not speak.
As walls and windows, clouds and leaves, roads and rain.
As mere spectators worldwide.
But this does not mean we cannot write.
Our words are to be found below.
They fall, because too heavy.
They are all still there.
Down.
On the ground.
Read other stories about racism.
Also on Stories and News: