Where memory fades
Who does that wreath, now converted into a sad rusty wire, honour? And the one who hanged it, is it perhaps the same that lies beneath that collapsed cross? That Virgin, to which someone entrusted the protection of a soul, now seems to ask for help while melting helpless with the wall that supports it.
In these Argentinian cemeteries time seems frozen. But it isn’t. How long does memory last? What does it turn into over time? How can be grief measured? After our death we will be cried, then remembered, and finally forgotten. Then, reduced to an anonymous rusty wire, will we finally be dead?