According to a report published by Human Rights Watch, thousands of children work in the tobacco industry in Indonesia, where they are exposed to nicotine poisoning and pesticides.
Indonesia is the fifth largest tobacco producer in the world...
We are the sons.
|Photo from The New York Times|
Yours, if you want.
Someone else, if you prefer.
But there is little difference, almost none, in this our life.
We are all equal here on the ground, even at the same point we would come if we got up.
Yes, I know it is absurd, all this.
But this does not prevent us to live it.
Maybe the opposite happened, as the ghost named normality that so much they used to talk about, above the perennial clouds, ran down on us.
Pure chance would be fine too, we would be here waiting for him, anyway.
You will see a very few distinctions in our doing.
The game is in our bare fingers wielding death.
And the school is in the very opened eyes measuring how long the cruel movie might be.
A break is the result of a breath from abused nature.
And work is everything, actually, in spite you can call it in a thousand other ways.
It ennobles, they say.
Maybe, but here we would rather avoid so much inherited lineage.
If only we had awareness.
If only the years and guile, especially the muscles, were proportional to our mutilated tenderness.
Then we would get up together and united in one voice would scream our desire for a present, before a future.
However, it takes time that we did not have to know the alternatives.
Here it is the life that moves away from itself, or the worst version which you may fall in.
That is difficult, almost impossible, whereas you draw all the turns by yourself.
Like the celebrated families by the famous Russian narrator, all the happy children are alike, but every unhappy child is exploited differently.
But when the way is the same, we are all brothers.
Few differences between us, I said.
Because we are all sons.
Of a single parent.
Reason for living.
And its opposite.
The infamous, cursed.
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