Those were the times.
Noone was remotely disturbed at the sight
of pretty much anything anymore. That in itself was disturbing.
A young boy looking out of what once was called a window,
a rectangular hole, no glass, partially clad with corrugated iron.
Outside, gray ashes falling from a pitch-black sky.
The town‘s inhabitants have forgotten what the sun looked like.
All accounts, all illustrations of it were burned in The Purges of winter '26.
Forgetting the sun was mandated by law, as were many other things.
Flakes of ash landing on a small, reaching hand.
How can something so light be so heavy on the heart?
In what world are children made to feel unseen?
The boy kept roaming his thoughts, and something else came to mind.
The rare sighting of a horse in the outlands, one of the last remaining.
The boy had to get supplies for his family, his moms and sisters.
Kind interactions weren’t just out of the ordinary; they were banned, too.
Small hands outstretched to the snorting nostrils,
big as humans' eyes. Two foreheads touching gently,
as the horse was bowing down to the boy.
There was love between the boy and the horse.
A dragon passes the skies above, interrupting this memory.
A mythical creature that was once a flying lizard, such tender part of nature.
Those were the times. Even a creature like this had to leave its soft origins behind, beguiled by dark contemporary witchery, transforming by force to survive.
The boy wasn‘t ducking down as one might expect. Quite the contrary,
his neck and face turned towards the spewing flames, eyes closed.
Heat like no other, this kind of burn is known only to the people of those times.
This was his sun.