gaza, the box

The Survivors.

The beach is a dump but there is poetry in their waves dashing onto the concrite and twisted iron covering the seaside. Remains of past wars. I wonder myself how it will be. How it will be that they break once, and over and over again; and that they dash against the shore vanishing into quiet water on the sand, only to go back to get together and break one more time against the rubble of past wars.

It ocurred to me that they are like this. Like water dashing against stone until it breaks it; like salt rusting the iron until it falls apart.; like waves coming from a close distance althought they seem to be far away, only to push against the sand memories from the other side of the sea; something distant, Antique; a certainty that give them the right to recover this sand, these shells, these dry drops of salt that remained stranded at the border that the shore is.

by Nuria tesón