It can’t rain all the time, they say.
Yes, it cannot.
But in the meantime it's raining, and all, really everything that keeps us alive, joined together, it’s a strange kind of umbrella.
We found a refuge under it.
Nonetheless, we wait for it to end, the worst day of our common story.
We hope that the weather will be benevolent, and so the future.
Meanwhile, it's raining.
|With the imminent arrival of the monsoon rains 700,000 Rohingya refugees risk their lives in Bangladesh|
Let’s be honest, right?
No government leader will launch proclamations and expensive missions to save us, with or without the support of the assembled nations.
No coalition will take the field against our enemy, unless to lift a colossal finger, pointing it there, where the money and selfishness hurt.
There are no rock stars who will organize mega concerts for charity and commitment.
They won’t write songs, for us.
The hands will not stop in due silence before the slow, inexorable narrowing of our horizon.
Nobody will print gadgets and wave flags to remember the rejected children of the third millennium.
Well, if all that was not enough, it's raining too.
The tears we ourselves have sent into heaven are falling on us.
Back to the source, sent back with a receipt of a bitter return.
Then, all that remains to us is clinging to what remains.
As said, an unusual type of umbrella.
Every noise of the latter on the surface of the holy skin that protects us.
Each fragment of relief at the thought that it could have been worse otherwise.
In that brief moment of rediscovered courage, held in the embrace of our brotherhood, we become one with our only friend.
We are the umbrella, therefore.
We ourselves are the border between the life we have and the one we should have.
Because we are the love for the land we occupy, wherever it is, everyplace it will be, which resists and survives everything.
It cannot rain forever, it was said.
Well, when it will stop, because it will do.
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