A tiny boy races through a village, with fragile arms carrying books, papers, maybe a pencil or two. He's hugging the world with bright eyes, while stumbling through the morning light, traveling aimlessly in a field of
Never looking down at animals' hopeless faces, flesh blown away by the bombs of freedom, the scorching heat smearing morality, changing what should be,
what shouldn't be.
But here he is still, his shadow in the haunts from forgotten tears