Highway Chile

The highway was lost in dust and the weeds were struggling to get the man's attention . They were nasty , devilish creatures with rusty metal edges that had eaten the ground. On the smoked battelfield you could only see the burnt corpses of small rats and worms . The dry face of the general was filled with victory smile and the good ol'd machine gun was tired . It had had a long life , and the only thing to contemplate now was little time left before it would be thrown in the pile of junk, right next to his master's collection of animal eyes. It was a matter of vanity, of course. The leader of the weeds liked to measure the number of victims , just to keep evidence of such things. Rats were the favourite pray. Big enough to be a challenge to brag with, but easy to kill .Their corpses were like rolling stones when they were thrown in the nearby river. The weeds knew no failure ; they were the highway itself . The weeds were above good and bad , above sins and vices ; they were a embodying the primitive sense of justice ,that was lost when babylon fell. The pile of eyes was evergrowing, and it soon reached the sky . The weeds never tried to climb the Victory montain, because treading on the small , juicy, white globes was seen as impure. Only the general had the right to go up in the bluish skies and chat with God. The creatures knew no law other than : All weeds are equal , but some are more equal than others.