A Crack

I think I will not last long.

There is a crack in one of my walls: a part of carcass rusted away, making a narrow hole in my square steel belly. Winds have windened it a little.

There have been few migrant incidents since I was installed. The sun heats the ground mercilessly; the patrol who drive acroos the area are lazy, somber and silent; my nine-foot high steel walls have become a subtle shelter for yellowish grass and small bushes - the only greenery to be found in this corner of the world.

Yesterday, however, I had a visitor. When a silhouette of a man appeared in the distance against the blue sky, I was sure he came to attempt border crossing. I was as sure that he would fail, for everyone of them did.

But he was a painter. His being an artist could be easily recognised from his paint-stained coat and a stack of carboard-alike thick papers under his arm. He was tall. He went closer and hid under my wall in my shadow.

Then the man took the paintbrushes and a bottle of water from his bag and started. He took a long look of the scenery before him, making drafts in his mind, and then went painting on one of the sheets. He painted with cheap waterbased ink, those I used to carry in my belly a hundred times before I was dropped here and abandoned. I knew the label and the colors perfectly.

Half an hour later, I faced his finished work; I was amazed at how it matched the very soul of the desert, having spent more that two years here myself. The artist stepped back (as much as the wall behind allowed) and bowed his head to the side, examining the picture. Then he turned, made an unsatisfied expression, looked once more, and put the painting into the crack accurately. He left, finally, and hurried through the desert not to be arrested by the patrol.

I heard today from a young police officer that the President intends to demolish the improvised fortified barrier. If so, when they come to scrap me, they will find a rust-sided crack and a beautifil picture inside.