Midnight. I hear crashes. I see escapes of desperate beings in shock under beams of lights that populate the night sky.

In agony, they seek shelter under cars or towards the back of houses. Their hearts flutter about to come out of their mouths. I look up and, again, I see dismay. Others irrational beings; this time, the winged on wild flights flee to the mountains in an act no less tragic in search of who knows, to get rid of the hell created rationally by man to the delight of the men themselves with the intention of toasting New Year's Eve. New Year's Eve? The Eve of what?

Suddenly, in the midst of the crowd that flocks from all corners, aiming for the best place around the tons of gunpowder planted under the sand, I observe and hear screams, sobs of newborn babies, infants and insane howls of small dogs capriciously accompanied of their parents and pseudomadames respectively.

Which man, in his right mind, would take his offspring or pet to an event whose main spectacle is the burning of tons of bombs amid the deafening noise?

The event takes place. An hour after the passing of I don't know what, hundreds, maybe thousands of bottles scattered on the floor of the sidewalks, lawns, the edge of the beach; many, shattered, scattering shards everywhere, just to satisfy the mints of the sound they produce when they burst on the floor.

*Original text written on the blog of the writer Hermes Machado

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