Gorse

Mum, mum , where's mum?

The last thoughts in her head, now are the noise of the machines.
The dressmaking machines.
The fashion-machines.
Exploitation it is not fashionable, then let's put the fashinable-brothel in a fashionable-chicken factory, in the middle of the gorse.

She works at a chicken-factory.
Well, there're no chicken, but the air is full of sweet and heat.
Many women, like her, working at the same time in with the fashion-machines.
She tries to think in Pepiño, four years old, so cute, and so small.
She loves to go with Pepiño to the mountain, to go for a walk.


There aren't many free time.
Many weekends she is working.
Go for a walk to the mountain with Pepe, his husband, and with cute Pepiño.
Go picnic, between the gorse, the lovely galician toxos.
Yellows spots of the xorimas, the flowers of the gorse, along the hills, behind the sea.
In other mountain far of the mountain of the fashionable-chicken factory.

When she was a girl, she loved to go with grandpa to the mountain.
Grandpa was a intelligent man.
Grandpa knew the science of to do the zocas, the traditional wood's shoes, essential in other times when there wasn't Wellington's, only zocas.
Lovely days too , near the lareira, with histories between the fire and the tenderness of the family.
Gorse. gorse.
Green and yellow.
Love and denigration.
Mountain and black-sea.
Gorse, toxo's Galician yinyan.
Gorse iconic, in an iconic land.
Sara went with grandpa to collect gorse, to use as firewood.
Sara now was lacing green trousers, one piece, other and a madeinmarroco docket.
Marroco at Galicia.
Sara didn't saw the bodkin, and the red began to dye the green.
She stopped to think about this new kind of gorse, who give her blood on the green, but no histories at the night.
No family tenderness of grandpa.
Only Pepe and Pepiño, her precious treasures.
No toxos for a little of heat, only a broken bloody bodkin for a little of money.
Gorses.