I had entered the bar where I usually go to have a coffee.
The television was broadcasting cruel images of a massacre in a far away country. Corpses torn in peaces, loads of dead bodies, demolished houses and, mainly, a lot of explosions coming one after the other, bomb explosions, bursts of bullets covering also the voice of the journalist.
While I was looking and listening to all that, I heard a feeble groan, a heartrending sob: a man was standind in front of the TV screen, biting a handkerchief soaked with tears - Granades - he was saying with a broken voice - surface-to-air missiles, more than ten thousand mines per square kilometer.
I gazed upon him, feeling a great solidarity. Television was now broadcasting images of huge stakes, burnt children, a totally destroyed city.
- Tons of chemical weapons - the man screamed - tons of grenades and mortar shots are litterally raining from the sky, two hundred per minute, can you understand what it means?
- Of course - I said - a tremendous slaughter.
TV screen was crackling. The sky upon that far away city was lighted up by bullets and shots, bombs and missiles, a pyrotechnic spectacle representing death.
The man flopped down. I went help him, offering him my cognac.
- Come on, come on - I told him - your sensibility does credit to you.
- Three thousand bombs per minute, can you understand? - He said to me, holding tight consulvely my arm - and what can I do?
- Yes, it makes me shudder. Are you in a humanitarian body?
- Not at all - he answered - I'm a weapon treader. And there, there - he said pointing at the screen with a sad grimace - I haven't sold any weapon!
And again he flopped down, crying.
The television was broadcasting cruel images of a massacre in a far away country. Corpses torn in peaces, loads of dead bodies, demolished houses and, mainly, a lot of explosions coming one after the other, bomb explosions, bursts of bullets covering also the voice of the journalist.
While I was looking and listening to all that, I heard a feeble groan, a heartrending sob: a man was standind in front of the TV screen, biting a handkerchief soaked with tears - Granades - he was saying with a broken voice - surface-to-air missiles, more than ten thousand mines per square kilometer.
I gazed upon him, feeling a great solidarity. Television was now broadcasting images of huge stakes, burnt children, a totally destroyed city.
- Tons of chemical weapons - the man screamed - tons of grenades and mortar shots are litterally raining from the sky, two hundred per minute, can you understand what it means?
- Of course - I said - a tremendous slaughter.
TV screen was crackling. The sky upon that far away city was lighted up by bullets and shots, bombs and missiles, a pyrotechnic spectacle representing death.
The man flopped down. I went help him, offering him my cognac.
- Come on, come on - I told him - your sensibility does credit to you.
- Three thousand bombs per minute, can you understand? - He said to me, holding tight consulvely my arm - and what can I do?
- Yes, it makes me shudder. Are you in a humanitarian body?
- Not at all - he answered - I'm a weapon treader. And there, there - he said pointing at the screen with a sad grimace - I haven't sold any weapon!
And again he flopped down, crying.
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