train between Delhi and Agra (India)
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between a binary and the other, the colors of the clothes to dry you how to live and die as the edge of the railway: it is no longer a transit time of a shift, but a survival space, in continuous suspension of the meaning of existence and the scope of travel, including the habit of being deprived of bread and slice and a heated cab, including a shack and a fancy leather chair with adjustable armrests, anchored in line with the other. Among
over a box of biscuits and a cow grazing in the trash, sowing and watering dark children, wrapped in colorful and bright clothing so as to terminate the background of the perception of dirt and dust on the fabric. Between an electronic device that calls, surf the web, playing music of your choice and a pile of garbage bags seen through the window, I is the elegance, dignity and the hard nature of the act of spinning with the spinning wheel: How far? Among the garbage and IITA-phone there are so few millimeters to understand that they are only the thickness of the same coin: the misery and luck run in the same direction as the train.
Outside, in another dimension, is still Gandhi and his campaign, his movement of the row, like a good dance, like a monument, mute, which remains the granite over time, unchanged in his example between the earth and the clouds , smiling behind those glasses, ready to welcome the world when the world will have the strength or desperation to look him straight in the eye.
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Walking hand in his pocket
dirty feet on clay plow
life and not knowing what the spirit without the hierarchy of poverty
immaterial, without knowing a soul
and listen only
recall rich.
"But what do you want for yourself?"
"Great food, lots of money, a car, a cell phone ..."
"Where is your spinning wheel?"
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