𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘈𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘺𝘢𝘯 𝘖𝘭𝘶𝘸𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘪.

In a dream, I walk with my second brother (he is not dead anymore). His shirt vies with the sky, blue. And I don’t have that fear of coming home to the aftermath of a war- broken furniture, a broken pane, broken people. I mean the road is filled with happy people- even the men run after butterflies and the women stick flowers in their hair. And the girls on the street, walk without casting glances behind their back, I mean they no more wear the fear of being a victim of rape. And I shake hands with my father and my teeth do not grit. I mean my father eats in the same plate with his rival brother. And the orange in the backyard is ripe with fruits; my tongue is convinced this is how happiness tastes. The orange. And I pinch my skin and it feels real. Yet my mind guffaws in disbelief; can there be a place where this skin knows nothing next to pain?