He can read the pebbles.
Like scrolls written by the river, he reads their stories and weeps.
Some pebbles are old. They tell stories of a time when the river was clean, healthy and alive.
The pebbles’ smoothness tells him of the joy the fishes, snakes and the naked girls and boys used to have a thousand years ago.
The pebbles are like totems telling mythologies of times when the earth was respected, the city was dead and the river was alive.
The majority of the pebbles are now black; in places which was once a river bed.
The river is now dead, the earth disrespected and the city is alive.
Or is it?
Some little children stack them up like little skyscrapers and kick them down for fun.
The stories the pebbles tell are unheard by them.
Listen to the pebbles.
What do they whisper?
We have witnessed the jungles and the villages.
We have captured rivers in our grooves.
We have seen you take birth.
We have seen you grow.
We have seen you become a monster.
Don’t throw us away when we warn you.
We are the stories which make up your boundary walls.
We are your protectors.
When we fall away, the wild will devour you.
The snakes you killed, the hyenas you slaughtered, the wolves you ate — all of them will return.
When we fall away, nature will return.
Who will protect you from the storms and the sewer-floods then?
We don’t ask for much.
Heed us when we talk to you.
Don’t piss in the river.
Don’t blacken it with your shit.
It is the life source of you retarded millions.
When it will truly die — you shall cannibalise on your life.
We love you.
Love us back.
Or go fucking die.