The eyes of those who survived are mirrors of their souls. It's dismay turned into big tears falling freely, creating grooves in the faces painted of black and gray, loading in their back a carved sorrow and the burden of sleepless nights. The silence is profound. There are no words to describe the horror of having almost lost the very existence in an unequal struggle. In their bodies, the blaze marks are scars of a battle won, but almost lost. In the most recent memory, marked by blood and iron, is the anguish and despair of endless hours waiting for the precious help that was slow to arrive. The Pearl of the Atlantic bleeds at its heart. The island continues to breathe fire for a week now. Suffers, but does not succumb. From this tragedy, like a phoenix, rises its stoic and brave people who did not flinch before the calamity that was coming in the mountainous nooks and eaves of the roofs. Myths are built up delimited by the flames of unsung heroes, men of peace that the ground showed their fiber until exhaustion. The locals do not lower the arms. They offer what they can, their hands in solidarity, their food, their words of comfort, a hug, a shoulder and a hopeful smile. We are not alone. We are together. We are united, like our ancestors before us. Is printed on the DNA, we are islanders, the result of centuries of insularity that taught us to rely solely on our indomitable will to survive in an almost peaceful coexistence with a generous nature, harsh but not to blame. It is man who does everything and some destroy without considering the consequences. Well done Madera.
