May 17, 2011
The first light of dawn skimmed the treetops without being able to penetrate deeper into the heart of the forest. The brightness hesitated between a semi-darkness and the clear tones of the emerging day, still haloed by a mist, fed by the Kiya River. Blatte loved this time of day, the only one, perhaps, which he took full advantage of when he worked at the mine. He would descend into the depths of the earth in the early hours of the morning and only emerge in the evening, worn out, and almost unable to put one foot in front of the other. He remembered the play of light on the mountain, timid reflections on the rock; the crisp, even pungent, air that paralyzed him at the start of winter until it snowed too much for the foreman to allow the work to continue, and every day of hi
