Thirty one lives. With all their complexities. All their dreams. All their talents. All their drives. All their loves and hates. All their circumstances. All their names. Thirty one lives from Cuba who were going to do something in America.
Gone. To a watery grave at the bottom of the sea.
All we know is that some waited in the open ocean for help, outside their capsized boat, in dark and light, dark and light, dark and light in the open sea of nothing but empty horizons on all sides for at least FIVE days.
No one came... God damn you, fidel castro.
Thursday, August 25, 2005