Ici, au bord d'un fleuve, ce sont des petits chiots jouant dans le sable chaud à quelque distance de leur mère qui se tient dans un coin d'ombre, misérable et pelée, mais qui remue la queue, emplie de fierté pour ses petits. Elle est un de ces chiens errants faméliques, près de mourir et que les humains chassent à coups de pierres. Là, dans la fraîcheur du soir, elle peut jouir d'un bref répit.
Dans cette écriture un regard, une sensibilité, un pont singulier et unique avec la réalité.
The little puppies were plump and clean, and were playing in the warm sand. There were six of them, all white and light brown. The mother was lying a little away from them in the shade. She was thin and worn out, and so mangy that she had hardly a hair on her. There were several wounds on her body, but she wagged her tail and was so proud of those round puppies. She probably would not survive for more than a month or so. She was one of those dogs that prowl about, picking up what they can from the filthy streets or around a poor village, always hungry and always on the run. Human beings threw stones at her, chased her from their door, and they were to be avoided. But here in the shade the memories of yesterday were distant, and she was exhausted; besides, the puppies were being petted and talked to. It was late afternoon; the breeze from across the wide river was fresh and cooling, and for the moment there was contentment. Where she would get her next meal was another matter, but why struggle now ?
J. Krishnamurti, Commentaries on Living, 1956
A. Giacometti, Homme qui marche, 1947
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