Forgotten, in a corner of a now-abandoned Park, There are a few eyes of stone. They belong to a statue that has succumbed to the lichens of the time.
I like to think that once saw a different world, where creators gathered, before his watchful eye, to celebrate the life of every day. Those individuals of yesteryear, full of big dreams trying to transcend the superfluous. Men who laughed, they loved and drank harmony for years. But the scarcity always lurks at the bottom of the balance, ready to dry all life in its path. And our nature is more cyclical in what we can see with our small watery eyes.
It hurts thinking that only the Evergreen, the free soul prevail. Watching in silence, always watching as we wake up for burying each others, until the end is not even one single.
Eyes created to carry the curse of nonexistent flicker. It will endure silent, petrificando our memory.