There is a small town – tiny and dwarf – that lives on the blue shore of the sea stirred by the four winds: Kalkuta, Beijin, Sao Paulo, Tokyo -- the size of a suburb of those big cities. The northern waters are loose and beautiful in winter, and in summer they are more feminine and fertile. They invite you to navigate at all times.

Behind their backs to the ever-open sea, for many years some of their inhabitants have lived by watching the hidden outskirts of the east, where the wind of the spiritual guides has come to them instead of the light. According to the rumours of these friends, the West comes only in the face, and the South, the storm. And the uncontrollable northern countryside has seemed uncontrollable to them.

In this town they have had one monolithic look, but things are beginning to change in the high mountains and in the deep valleys, because most have understood that the west can bring the necessary rain, the rain the tension, the wings the dry point and the sea the pleasant breath. Thus, they have understood that rocky art no longer marks cardinal points.

Keep the rudder. In this town of blue cliffs, many young and old are missing, lost in the old stormy battles. Some of these citizens live in prison. The alien. The cemetery. The idea, hatred and misunderstanding added to the txapela has led both to the places where they are.

However, like the pups from anchor to stupid water, today, some try to escape the sterile past, leaving the cloudy waters and collecting the transparent ones. They also changed the scales. Build new helmets, sewing perforated fabrics, repairing networks... But there are others who want to maintain a manure law, reproach: “Eye for eye and stupid.”

You've forgotten that the strongest and most violent religion knows how to write the New Testament. This news is written to overcome the aging: to avoid the firmness of the ever-cold marble and to observe and respond to the clocks needles that awaken new opportunities.

The waters, restless, then flow upon the rocks. But, at the request of the new watch, the old sailor withdraws the withdrawal and leaves the rudder to the chin to the roast.

Spread the candles. Like the open sea, the sea is also burned, sometimes; and sterile, hard, red, malva… But the sea is a sea, especially large, overflowing and free.

During these days, under the cover of the new year, some neighbours on the Blue Coast have taken barges into the water. They have asked the people’s tambourine to call on the public to write a new Pact: to soften the shores of the cliffs among all, to stifle hatred, to open the narrow gorges and to give way to the sun.

In front of it, the fresh morning and the cloudy midday will require reconciliation. Spraying and moulding. Reconcile, not have to lie in the same bed and lean on the skin.

It's a hard job. It has been wrong and more than one has been harmed. The road must be opened from afar: the jails must be razed and the lilies of the cemeteries must be watered down. Me and you.

If it progresses it will be colossal. Otherwise, no. Otherwise, as usual, the small cats of dying fish will be fed in the deep sea, for the misfortune and misfortune of a small town living on the shores of the sea, raised by the four winds.