Everyday news come with photographs
those hold news of war, blasts, tears, from places where morning has sequel of
smoke, sarin or chlorine gas fomented dreaded paces. Cactus loses its beauty,
peeled bags full of bones, tied with yellow grass threads, (although everyone
does not want to let everything go with anger and apathy), and bodies of
children horribly contorted, lifeless, and wrapped with white papers. Places are there where sounds of guns roar
for decades, followed by another warned moments, and deserted lands, exodus of
refugees, more and more and more. No one knows when and where peace will
prevail for shake of humanity and other values of life, hope, existence, for
constructing gardens where downpour rains, green grass to sprout, no difference
between mine and theirs, and we stop fuming up anger, agony and stop seeing human
being dead by war and let life go with colors and dream, like flying of kites
in delight of lights, in the vast sky, and its darkness is a beauty of wonders,
and sky is not an urn full of ashes.
