At last arrives the long-awaited moment for the bean, that of harvesting. Because all bean worth its salt is a fundamentalist, and it does not conceive of other end than that of the heroic immolation, –stewing in its own juice in the cooking pot–, to be served at breakfast time, together with other distinguished co-religionists, such as fried eggs, bacon, and pork sausages. It is not its sacrifice, however, an entirely altruist one, as it is the case that the bean stops finding bearable the solid state´s worldliness, longing for a superior level of existence. It knows, –rather, it feels– that a great percentage of itself Will be transformed into fuel by the biped eater; that other good amount Will return, in the form of manure, to the same soil where it grew roots; but finally, that other great part —the part about which, at the end of the day, the bean really cares–, Will be expelled to the atmosphere in a gas state –gas about whose nobility doubts may be raised, not so about its volatility; and then the bean Will be finally free, –if not like trade winds, or Sirocco, free as a lesser wind.

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