few weeks ago, talking to Boboscorazones , we had an idea. She would make a picture. you wanted, and I ordered it for me to do a story with her. In the meantime I have written a story and would have sent it to him to do a picture from it. What comes below is the first part: your photo story that I followed from it. Soon the second half.
Today we went to the old park. Three days ago, not used as a makeshift helipad, so we thought it would be safe. There, we found out: the mud, footprints, wheel marks and bullet casings were gentle, beautiful and utopian intact, a flower. "It may be the last flower miles" she said fascinated. "It may be the latest in the world" I said. We spread a blanket on the floor and lying down beside her, name-playing and inventing stories about how he manage to survive in this hostile world.
If we walk for two hours to the east We are in the frontline. South as well. To the north and west may be five hours. In any case we can be sure that it does not matter at all in what direction or how far you walk, the entire planet is engulfed in a brutal war for far too long. There are no neutral corners, to our knowledge, this park could be the most peaceful in the world, and the echoes of explosions reaching even to our ears, that is not very comforting. Anyone
we saw there, embraced in the middle of the old park, oblivious to the soldiers and tanks that pass only a few dozen yards away, and deaf to the noise of bombs and gunfire, I would think that we are exempt from all fear. But in reality we are afraid, terribly afraid. Nobody sane could remain calm in face of such senseless annihilation.
When it started, the media was talking on the side of the "good" and "bad." Today one can speak of blood and pain, and tears and shouting, and coffins arriving in homes where no one left to bury. You can not escape from this spiral. You can not win, even not playing, but we are of those who decided that since we were going to die one way or another, at least it did not want to kill in a war that did not reflect a moral, not even a goal, just nameless soldiers who fired with convinced that was the only option to prevent an unnamed enemy soldier fired at them.
And in the midst of this chaos, she and I, as two unconnected pieces and completely oblivious to the world. Two (silly) hearts without will or purpose or hope, seeking mutual warmth amid an abandoned park. She gently caresses the petals with distracted eyes. In its history, the flower is born to a stray bullet, a shot that never came to hit their target because he decided to save a life.
A deep roar rends the sky. About us fly eight fighters L10. Are recognized, they come to see that there are no air defenses around. Means that the front defending the city in the East has fallen. Everyone knows what comes after, a lone bomber. They will sweep the city with everything in it, we have a couple of minutes, maybe less. She has been tensed suddenly knows it. Scanning the horizon with glassy eyes, awaiting the inevitable. We have lived the last few months knowing that this moment would come but now we are unable to accept it.
A hoarse noise begins to rise higher in the horizon above the gunfire and explosions. I wish I could say something, but in my head all the words sound absurd. The mole is slowly approaching, rumbling, taking over the sky, savoring the wait, our hopes, our fears. She shakes my hand with eyes fixed on the aircraft. Thick tears fall down her cheeks, barely able to make a sound. They say that if you look closely enough you can see the pump smoothly falling off the back of the plane. She did not even blink. Grit your teeth hard. The strong grip with my hug while his left hand ripped soil our flower and put it in their eyes, plugging everything behind. Since there is no air, no pump, no war, only twenty-four million petals and yellow stamens. She looks at me semitemblorosa but grateful smile. I take your other hand gently. Is no longer tense. Looks back at the flower, our flower, perhaps the only flower left in the world. Smile. Sigh.
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