Monday Morning

Monday Morning The mist has been hanging low over the village like a suicidal thought on a long damp evenings. Poison or the rope? I remember Saddam Hussein his fall was long and I still hear the snap as his neck broke. What am I doing here, this tedious, grey village and the smell of dirty woolen, baaing sheep grazing amongst drab olive trees. The pallid houses, shuttered and avoid seeing the misery of the mist that drips as unstoppable sorrow of a death´s grief that shrouds all life. This morning the sun was shining and the village Looks like a fairy tale. I sit on the terrace try to get a humble suntan as I´m seeing the cardiologist tomorrow and don´t want him to think I´m sick. This is a good place to live a place to live a long time.