-It will come,
He said, sipping his beer and fumbling for the lighter.
I listened to every other word,
hoping that was enough,
-This thing that’s happening in Tahrir Square. It’ll come here,
To the south first then to the North,
Maybe not as dramatic as in Egypt, but it’ll come.
we both have regimes that no one believes anymore,
elites that represent only themselves …
these things are infectious,
Said my father,
blowing cigarette smoke through his nose and looking me in the eyes,
forcing me into attention.
I grunted my accord and looked at my glass,
feeling cheated of the contemplative beer buzz,
Not really sure of what to say,
I said what I was thinking:
-Better late than never, I suppose.
-Yes, this place needs a cleaning …
Off course here it wont be so … revolutionary.
The EU won’t let it go so far,
but people will fill the squares very soon.
-Like what, four, five years?
-No! A year … maybe less.
My father looked intently to his cigarette.
Waiting for me to say something.
I zoned out as I felt the conversation taking a turn to the improbable.
Off course there’s reasons for people to be fucked with politics, politicians and government,
but we have years of rot before we see people on the streets.
This is Portugal,
we’re all beyond indignation and certainly over protestation.
I looked at my father, encouraging him to talk some more,
and ask me nothing.
I lwatched over the roofs of downtown Lisboa that,
4 months from then,
would see camped protesters on Rossio Square.
A five minutes walk from my house.
All this things that I chose to believe were in a manageable future,
are already here.