The Onion

the onion in father's hands didn't have time to cry, with his fist punched it on the corner of the table, spread salt and ate it with sheep's cheese, (like the builders of the pyramids, my dad was paid in onions) the onion in my mother's hands was sweet and made many leaves, spring of spring she shared it throughout the village, people were wondering: how does not bring tears, every time I have an onion in my hand I think, to clean it with my hands, cut it with a knife, or punch with a fist, the onion in my hands is waiting