There is a moment of the day when men rest, faraway, on the other side of the world, where the sun is setting down and cicadas let place to crickets. Moms tuck up their kids in bed, a watered down mate, a lukewarm coffee and the uncountable voices which resound shouting the memories of the day that is gone. It is just in that moment when Beijing wakes up.
Before the first beams of the yellowest sun everseen reach the streets still snoring, a man has a walk around the park with his bird. The bird doesn’t sing or fly, it doesn’t know that it knows, it even doesn’t know that it lives without wanting to live . But that 76 years old sir whistles and moves, training his always young body in the arts of Tai chi chuan. The bird wishes to fly, like everybody,like men. The bird wants to be free as its owner. The man jumps, exercises. The bird, in a frenetic attack, flutters fast and even more accelerated regrets its outburst of hope when it crashed into the wired wall because its body is weakened as a result of captivity. Then, the bird realises itself as a bird and confirms that it has not been created to fly as a bird.
The man walks looking to the floor and dreams awaken for a while, he walks slower and stops, the man knows. The soft wind is blowing in the hottest summer that the North Capital has ever seen. The bird doesn’t whistle, because the bird is dead although it doesn’t know it because it’s a bird, and birds aren’t allowed to think or feel or complain about dying or whistle like birds. The man goes to the lake and looks at his reflection as if it were the first time, like in love, as feeling crazy and strange to himself. He observes himself carefully, without intending to . The man looks at himself and shakes his dusty wings wishing to see the world outside of his cage, that world which birds talk about. Silence, muteness, calmness, there are people sleeping downstairs.