Purpl Spots In My Inner Thigh Bekini Line

" Baghdad è l’officina del diavolo, il cimitero dei disperati, il luna park delle bombe”


Amira si alzò di scatto, svegliata per l’ennesima volta dal sibilo di una bomba. Aveva la fronte sudata e il respiro affaticato. Se fosse andata da un medico, questo le avrebbe sicuramente detto che soffriva di crisi di panico, e le avrebbe raccomandato di starsene a casa tranquilla.
Ma a Baghdad gli unici medici disponibili erano quelli che operavano persone mutilate, e l’unica tranquillità che si poteva trovare era nella morte.

“Com’erano belli i campi di granturco,
le colline verdi, gli stormi cangianti.
How beautiful they were the vain hopes,
the illusions of love,
libraries Autumn "

Amira looked at the two beds close to him and was reassured to hear the quiet breathing of her children. He checked that the door was closed and gently took off the burqa. Her husband forced her to wear it at night, the moon was not to admire her face, even if they had not seen most years: the smoke of the explosions had destroyed everything, even the sky.
And it was so many years.
From the window, Amira could see the smoke rising from a house not far away, now reduced to rubble. Baghdad that night seemed overrun by a firework fireworks.
I heard the whistle, the whistle, and then, if you were lucky, the roar. If you did not hear him, you would not hear anymore.
There were so many tears to shed, so many words to scream, now people do not cry anymore. They were silent.
children died without ever having seen the ghost of a smile, the women did not know any more excited, the boys and girls fell in love again.
In the streets, on the ground, it was just rotten petals of a flower that was brutally murdered.
Journalists sometimes he discovered. They sat on the sidewalk, unable to comment, to breathe, to believe that that was really life.
The women tried to run away, but the future was always painted black. And killed.
Amira could be considered lucky: his home was intact, her children were still alive and her husband beat her only when the rape. All in all, had nothing to complain about.
Every time I looked out the window, in the rare moments when she could, she happened to think about his past, the fact that no one can ignore the call of their land.
And if this appeal is a gunshot, a scream of pain, a passport to death, is the same. You have to go.

"Allah, protect me and my children from this torture,
ago that they can grow, let them live.
not turn off their fire. "

Amira heard footsteps slowly up the stairs and hurried to put the burqa. She was not allowed to live, just had to breathe the toxins of the war.
He heard a whistle, a whistle, a roar and then close. The children awoke, crying, Amira and she wondered again why war, why it was necessary to slaughter the innocent unjustly.
In the faces of his children were all those emotions that she could no longer display.
In their tears, the pain of separation announced.
fear in their eyes, a question.

Why? Francesca Di

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