I closed my eyes
to escape the 
horrific realities;
in my dreams, 
there was this man
violating his daughter, 
cutting his wife
into pieces;
I jumped out of my bed,
didn't dare to drink,
thought the water in
the glass could be red;
The next morning,
I drowned myself
in stories that
painted conceit, 
horror, defeat;
I shut down all of
them to open mine;
I could neither
read, nor breathe.
On and off the bed, 
I knew I had to live
until I was dead.
I could nevertheless
sense a garden
somewhere, hanging
golden and silver fruits, 
I screeched to myself, 
'do I have to die to
reach there'
since there was silence
I cried as though I replied, 
'it's so unfair, so unfair, 
if I hadn't really seen
a splash of pristine
respite, how'd I imagine
it anywhere, it's unfair, 
it's so unfair.'
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