Wednesday morning

The street had the usual colors, gray, black tarmac and dirty brown plaster. The usual copy and paste buildings from the drawing board of long dead architects in art noveau  style. The strait pompous street was oversized made for parades, tanks and trams (none of them present at the moment). Instead the steps of thousends of people and hushed conversation filled the air. The sunshine were dimmed by smoke from people making fire at to keep warm during the freezing  night. The street itself had potholes and some of the facades were missing. It was then I saw the boy, he could have been maybe seven, his black eyes starred out on the street with fear while he was hugging what must have been his grandmother and would not let her go.  Later that day the grenades would fall again on the pompous street and some more people would die.

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About

I am who I was when I wrote this text but I do not know if I exist now. I am from Scandinavia where the arctic starts

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Posted in Autumn, Conflict, Life, patterns, Poem, Poetry, war

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