grandmother.
it was up to her to call it a fairytale or a story, to combine the credibility of her surroundings with her own beliefs. she would think of these while braiding someone's hair, someone sitting just in front of her. her own hair was longer. but she did not like it to be braided. she was plain. attachments, conjunctions, extensions...she hated such things. she loved intense poetry. people who talk less and mean a lot. she watched the trees. liken them to her own hair. would not be ashamed. she was just the way she is.
they had to be content with what they had. not wanting more. had to divide it. we cut the bread with a knife and distribute it to different hands and sit on the stairs while hearing the crying sounds of a children from afar, eating our bread. was my grandmother who made the breads. i had to take care of what was left to me. to maybe give some to my brother, to my friend, to my loved one. it was in my hands to cut the bread which was distributed to different hands again with my own knife and distribute it to other hands. to my loved one.
this was a fight of mine. the little child I saw on the corner of the street is still hungry. my eyes were not all eyes that saw the little children on the street corners. it is like that anyway. but. although the sentences cannot start with "but". but what would happen if our joint humanity was right in our eyes? if we were one while looking at the little children on the street corners.
