The Kalashnikov imagery stutters like broken kids in the valleys,
This idol of time, a relic not worshipped.
The struggles in the hills of the country go unnoticed.
The valley dreams; this pendant of charm, this shining valley, beckons.
We will go. Through the gates, the unbuilt bridges, the burnt villages.
We will go.
From the cities, we will spread out and form the human bridge, and we will meet them in the mountain valleys.
And then, a wisp of smoke will go up, and the smell of burning will coexist with the savagery.
The primitive existence will begin.
Our voices will be guns.
And we will all burn.
And the puppet strings will burn.
And when our ashes will be cremated, they will find our hearts still beating, our brains still working
We do not tire
We do not rest
We are the valley people
We are the circus clown
The middle people, wedged in mockery, the civilized disharmony, the pantomime execution.
We are the idols of time.
Photo by Rad Pozniakov on Unsplash
