We have a thick curtain that was inadvertently colored by lost moments. She, without delay, comes in the evening with strange winds to comb our coarse hair. In fact, I cannot distinguish her from our faces nowadays and because of this confusion I sometimes think she is my mother. She stands there to reduce the sound of the noon sun; I mean the burning sun, and to bring back some of our lost consciousness, but because of its redness, she always remembered the sad stories of lost life; I mean the tales of war.