It's sometime after midnight, and You are asleep, covered in the chilly breeze of the coming Autumn. The town is silent, as much as it can be on a regular summer night. This silence is misleading.
Somewhere to the East, this night is torn apart by constant cannonade of shots fired and blown explosives. Somewhere to the East, the soil is soaked in blood. The same soil that is capable of yielding the highest amounts of harvests.
You are turning 23, and yet this is the first year You are at war. So it'll be 23-1. I hope there won't be 24-2. These days, we've become so used to tell each other "Hang on", but one would want desperately it to be "Good luck!". As lucky as I've been to know all of You.
You are turning 23, and yet this is the first year You are at war. So it'll be 23-1. I hope there won't be 24-2. These days, we've become so used to tell each other "Hang on", but one would want desperately it to be "Good luck!". As lucky as I've been to know all of You.
Happy Independence day, darlings.
Let us celebrate this feast of Freedom. Mine and Yours.
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