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■ Ich hörte es kommen... ![]()
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2008-11-01 | [Text in der Originalsprache: english] |
Old wheat straws breathe hard
beneath the clay walls painted with ill white. Portraits of young warriors are covered in dust and the picture of the leader sits crowned in the middle, forgotten by time, but not by your memory. Old clothes eaten by moths rest unstirred in the closet as a souvenir from an age without colour. Wrinkled faces betray fear and weakness, unspoken thoughts and joys. Isolation. The wooden radio seems to broadcasts the messages of the leader and the rules which are to be followed. My grandfather weeps on the stairs for the ground of his father... for the blood of his brother... for the misfortune of being born in Romania....
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