In the big city, people washed up on the shore. Refugees of
the world. Misery, poverty, fear and hope have carried them,
on the golden wings of promise, to Babylon, the wicked city.
New York by name, Babylon by nature. At mornings a busy
place, a beehive full of intentions and greed, speaking in a
thousand languages. At night, a whore with thousands of
children, corrupted, dark and full of passion and desire.
On the farther corner of the street stands a beheaded dog on
his broken leg, singing an old Chicago blues song about his
mistress, washed up in the dark water of the Nile. An odd
story it was, about a proud German Sheppard, fighting
against all odds, with her children crying out for milk and
her lover far away, in lands which she couldn't even smell.
A wave of despair washed upon her as she felt the cruel
grasp of reality screaming in her ears. And dark water it
was indeed.
On the essence of reality and the soft touch of the dreams
lots have been said. But what have been done? could a dog be
crying out for mercy shedding a tear on his love that was
gone while all we see is an image in our mind, an illusion
of an homeless, filling our nose with such a striking odor
that we don't even think twice, walk away without remorse
and miss the overwhelming power of nature? The dark dark
water of the Nile?