Heroes

Temple guardians of a little vanishing world, brave and full of passion, they valiantly defend the meeting places for human exchange and relationships, set in unpretentious frames, nibbled by the passing of time.

As survivors on a tiny damaged raft, they face restlessness and greed, on a dangerous sea that doesn’t care about the past and its traditions, smashing together people and principles, obeying the march of progress.

Before it’s too late I shelter memories smelling of yellow paper, and “Ceci n’est pas une pipe,” like a freshly gathered broad bean listening to the gossip of old pilgrims, religiously sitting on green Formica chairs, conserving cloth in dusty trunks and expert hands. They cut cloth in the dead of night, while I preserve pure white clouds made by an ancient pink oven, as old as time; work done by glue and saw, buds and sharp prickles, made by a real good morning and good night!