Maccabees
Colour It in
Latchmere
The silent man lived in an isolated house, quite far from the town, where the noises did not reach, its rubber walls kept out the deafening bells of the churches.
The town was born near a river, silent and calm like evil, and on the other bank bathed the image of ice and fog of another almost identical town.
The silent era filled the its great silences, the bottles and objects of life, it was said that one day he had spoken, but no one had listened, his strange, frightened song.
It was said that one day he had agreed to compete with the noises of the world, but too much time, it was said, too much time has passed, to remember if he had a silver voice or just a desire to die that came from deep inside.
He had certainly been around the streets a lot, he had often entered bars , old man, perhaps even without memory, difficult to say, no one knew how old he was, but no one even told the story.
Of course his eyes were as big as a boy's and besides he hadn't married, but who today can say after what happened, whether it was better or worse, than those who have always spoken.
They never managed to get him to say yes, the priests and notaries tried, let's not be surprised today if he fell silent, he certainly never betrayed us, he certainly never betrayed himself.
And he lived alone in the town on the river, with his white hair spread across his forehead, without ever saying anything, without loving anyone, until they built, until who built the bridge.