Travel to Brazil
Khaled ears
Nothing to me is still there. Those in the land of the old house in Homs. Citron tree, the olive tree, and shyly germinating weeds in the corners of the squares of stone. Where there are no doors separating neighbors from each other, but just holes in the walls. There where bicycles are crumbling and the center of the road means of transport that barely accommodate modern cars. And where there are children walking barefoot carrying the burden of orange juice with joy inside nylon bags. We used to call «House aunts» where he lives relatives. In Beit aunts, there was no place for non-love that can not be tested completely for those who do not know Homs and air Homs. Often we resort to that house to escape from one of the chapters of the civil war that ravaged Lebanon. Once, to escape the murder of identity, and time, to escape the liquidation of the battles led by Unification Movement in Tripoli, and time, to escape the battles output «consolidation» of the city. Access to Homs as access to the beach safety. Did not notify days in Bali that killer bullets will replace him. Nothing to me is still there. Land in that house abandoned by her family. Nothing but the boxes containing the names of the old purposes lived inside the frames. All of them are abroad for a long time, until now the phrase «traveled Aalbraszel» synonymous with death. And stayed there alone Alamtan Michhtin black, without a reason to know the days of mourning that never ends. But the magic was created between the sadness inherent in the ribs and passion flowing toward the Lebanese fleeing from hell. Homs was something else new. I refuse to invite her childhood in Homs. What if I start crying spots under my feet, and I hold my mother Btnorh stark: «This is not Syria and Homs. Take me to Homs ». And to the old Homs, Homs to the country, promised this week across the few pictures that have reached us. But, this time, it was not what I felt glamorous. It's the same sadness. Surplus of love itself. But something else spoiled the city's air. Maybe it is the smell of blood that flowed in the streets. The blood of the names we do not know, and we were told that she traveled Aalbraszel
Khaled ears
Nothing to me is still there. Those in the land of the old house in Homs. Citron tree, the olive tree, and shyly germinating weeds in the corners of the squares of stone. Where there are no doors separating neighbors from each other, but just holes in the walls. There where bicycles are crumbling and the center of the road means of transport that barely accommodate modern cars. And where there are children walking barefoot carrying the burden of orange juice with joy inside nylon bags. We used to call «House aunts» where he lives relatives. In Beit aunts, there was no place for non-love that can not be tested completely for those who do not know Homs and air Homs. Often we resort to that house to escape from one of the chapters of the civil war that ravaged Lebanon. Once, to escape the murder of identity, and time, to escape the liquidation of the battles led by Unification Movement in Tripoli, and time, to escape the battles output «consolidation» of the city. Access to Homs as access to the beach safety. Did not notify days in Bali that killer bullets will replace him. Nothing to me is still there. Land in that house abandoned by her family. Nothing but the boxes containing the names of the old purposes lived inside the frames. All of them are abroad for a long time, until now the phrase «traveled Aalbraszel» synonymous with death. And stayed there alone Alamtan Michhtin black, without a reason to know the days of mourning that never ends. But the magic was created between the sadness inherent in the ribs and passion flowing toward the Lebanese fleeing from hell. Homs was something else new. I refuse to invite her childhood in Homs. What if I start crying spots under my feet, and I hold my mother Btnorh stark: «This is not Syria and Homs. Take me to Homs ». And to the old Homs, Homs to the country, promised this week across the few pictures that have reached us. But, this time, it was not what I felt glamorous. It's the same sadness. Surplus of love itself. But something else spoiled the city's air. Maybe it is the smell of blood that flowed in the streets. The blood of the names we do not know, and we were told that she traveled Aalbraszel
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