I’ve been lying down, my mother read a poem of war, it was left to tanks to my bed.
The bullets have pierced my sleep. I look at one of them.
I see a street full of white ash dust. I wish it was not so white that it would be the bed of bed and street.
Now the tanks are gone from the dirt sheets of my bed and they are slowly coming to my sleep.
I put all my memories in a backpack, the bombs that were bombed.
The next image of this sleep stops you, closing your eyes and open, the endless beginning of chaos …