STORY OF A SUNFLOWER

Imagine for a moment a sunflower, a yellow so beautiful that you would look at it for hours; imagine it in a greenhouse, with artificial light, non-passing air and strategically placed sprinklers. The sunflower still there, always remains true and clean and absorbs nothing but hot condensed air between the glass of the greenhouse; he lives in something unnatural, in order to be cut off when he grows perfectly, almost to seem fake. Everything that goes around it is artificial and makes it grow in an environment that is too protected and built up. But will he ever know what freedom is? The beauty of the sunlight beating on the petals and the passion that drives him to turn towards him following him everywhere; the pain of the hail that tries to bring it down. The flower, that of the field, grows stronger and more resistant; maybe not so beautiful because it was forged by time and bad weather, but what about the greenhouse? Oh no, he will be beautiful, he will be an enviable flower, fake but weak and that can easily be razed to the ground and not because someone decides to pick it. No one would pick a sunflower with a few missing petals and a slightly darkened stem. And our world is exactly like that, it's a world of fields and greenhouses and each one grows in one of two places. It is up to us to move and explore, we who can come out of the shell and take our freedom, breathe the air and really savor everything that knows true, of life because those flowers, all flowers will never have the opportunity to do so. , but think about it if they had a choice? I'm sure that if they could they would run away, far away, where they could grow as they were originally created. Free to color the world.

THE SOLDIERS

A blink of dust, my grandfather was shooting because he had to defend a homeland.

I have not been in battle but I have fought many wars.
Black crosses on the heart and mud on the hands.

My grandfather was in the trenches, risking his life to defend our nation from the Nazis.

I did not know that there were men exterminating children.

Last beats for wars that have begun and never ended. Flowers on the graves of friends and girlfriends, stars fallen in the desert sunlight.

Rivers that fill the houses with tears, honors without choice, a deserted pit.
Children who scream and have no guilt.

War kills whoever decides it but whoever makes it is still dying.

( To all the dead sons, to all the dead fathers, to all the dead daughters and the dead mothers. To all the people who died from causes decided by other people. R.I.P) 

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