Faisal Abbas 
From the moment of its original spring explosion, many water took place in this river. Like all rivers, bodies were also thrown. We were the bodies, and the water was our dreams, alternating the seasons and events. In any case, the river was our only way towards the future. After life and options narrowed for half a century. During the past fourteen years, we have enthusiastically, simplicity and simplicity, and perhaps we will die with enthusiasm and seriousness, and even smoothly in the next year.
What is our hand to do? This is how history works. Thus it is going on, while we live in it. Do not care much about the number of our killing. So our blood looks merely oil to wire its eaves, and soften them to walk forward. He also does not care about the laws of physics. So this year looks very long, much longer than the 365 -day year that they taught us at school. He does what he wants when he wants, passes heavy on souls, dug on the minds, but it is continuing.
The options that we have many, and we have a bad hand from them, or waiting for fate to do the worst. In our hand, we stick to the affiliations without the state, and we continue to throw hatred in the faces of each other and the face of the world. We gathered the pus again, and we store it, waiting for the moment of a new explosion.
In our hand, we are embellished in our narrow vision of ourselves and the other, and we look from its window to the world and reproduce hatred as a witness to our new grave. We return after years to repeat what we say now, and to feel the sadness that we feel now, fear, anxiety and impotence, and all the feelings that can afflict a person, absolute human being, who has a light in a moment of darkness, he gave to him, but voices from behind him screaming with him: come back, return, this is an ambush, it is a train coming to our support.
In our hand, we learn from our enemies, and give them the greatest victory that they once dreamed of: to repeat them. In our hand, we wander as ghost groups, and leave the imaginations of others to draw for us pictures of sects or nationalities, and it is more likely that they will be affixed to them after that, linguistically turbulent characteristics such as: infidelity, traitors, heretics, killers, terrorists, remnants, agents. Without having the ability to accurately define any of these characteristics.
In our hand, we get all the past, throw it into the river itself, and sit a little calm, until the purity of the water returns.
“We all live in bottom, but some look at the stars,” says Oscar Wilde. And those who look up to the top, often seen in the times of cramping as crazy, or minimal, weak and dedicated to sense and “cute”. And they have always endured the whispers of misunderstanding, hostile to the herd, and they have always grieved and despaired.
In practice, they were the minority in any society that thinks itself is minorities and many, victorious and defeated, and the sound of this minority was always dim and shy, but it was fixed and deep, so it was right when the moment of truth came.
The bet on these voices, which do not see itself numbers within primitive groups, is the only tool that we have in this dark and long basement.
These voices live in the worst days now, because the tongue of her condition says: This is a protected skewer approaching my skin now. There is nothing wrong with you, Sikhs, approach, it is inevitable that this pus is taken out, do it, even though the smell of the barbecue that I smell is my burnt flesh. Celebrating the anniversary of a spring explosion, it does not mean that the two people were killed. The aspects of the dead do not negate the ability of red water to return a river. Among the hundreds of options, we have to pay attention. I do not think we do.
