Cuerda·

Veo algo en el suelo, una sombra.
Me agacho y la sombra se agranda hasta llenar la habitación. Todo mi campo visual queda iluminado con el interior de la sombra y de entre los latidos del cocodrilo las manchas de blanco dejan paso a suspiros de fresno.

Descansando sobre el lomo del hipopótamo el arado continúa su camino. No tardan en brotar las alas blancas de entre las escamas. Retoma el vuelo desde las alturas que nunca abandonó dejando atrás el continuo sabor a sangre, el constante recuerdo de mortalidad.

Las piedras hablan así:

'Nearly all children nowadays were horrible. What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations such us the Spies they were systematically turned into ungovernable little savages, and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the Party. On the contrary, they adored the Party and everything connected with it. The songs, the processions, the banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brother- it was all a sort of glorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned outwards, against the enemies of the State, against foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, thought-criminals. It was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children.'

Junto al batir de alas 'Winter, 1st movement' by Antonio Vivaldi;