By Amaia Barrena García
On the other side of the glass, the estuary is like a savage animal that allows this sleepy giant of iron entrails to caress its back. Its arms have industry elbows, labour fingers, and moles that are visible scars of the tireless work. Its body, made of stone, has been tattooed without his consent: urban stains, graffiti, they call them. Somehow, it looks as if what was once the roof over so many men’s heads is now a teenager’s bedroom. To the left of this King Kong made of iron and still, there is chaos of buildings up the hill, and to the right, the marsh of Lamiako gives it an orderly look. Both sides of the same mirror sides A and B of one of those discs used in the digital era.
On the other side of the glass, the colossus withstands the pressure, knowing it has no bullets to face the one that produces cheap plastic guns for home delivery. The old factory that was once the Queen of the land is now a retired titan, observing seagulls landing in the water next to it. “I am tired. I don’t feel well,” the titan would say if he could feel. But the seagulls won’t listen to the old engine once known as Altos Hornos. They just mew as if they were singing in the shower or fighting over the biggest fish. After all, the things of the land mean nothing to those that belong in the sky.
