He had spent the morning again with hangover dreams. The sun was pouring in as if watching him through the window of the house. When the drowsiness of sleep combined with the radiance of the sun, his eyes were dazzled and he was rubbing his tired face with his weak hands. He got up, came back to himself, leaned against the window and stared outside.
It is such a dive that; as if he was not a child but a worker who could not raise the end of the month The father, who could not give his son pocket money, was the mother who could not make dinner. It was as if he was homeless without a warm home, in need of a friend's greetings.
He was interrupted by a distant voice. His mother was calling Jack from outside to help with work. Even though he was 10 years old, he was busy with everything. Because that's how it was supposed to be here. Childhood was just a concept. There weren't all kinds of toys and bicycles here. But isn't that blind possible television? In the advertisements, he was showing colorful toys and battery-powered cars from his thick glass. He started the day by imagining what he saw in the thick glass of the television in the thin window of the house. What a bad day it was.
He was shy, he felt insignificant. Afraid to voice her wishes, she knew well that getting a "no" answer would upset her even more. At least it was a good dream. She kept playing in her dreams. Especially at dusk, when the day calms down, in the narrow bed on which 3 people sleep, just before falling asleep.
Write the seasons.
You know, everyone counting days for the sake of calendars, decorating their holiday dreams; Summer overflowing from June to September.
What could this season mean for a 10-year-old boy: a 3-month vacation or the joy of being away from school like spoiled city kids? No, none of them. How meaningful could summer be for a child who was born before the sun and fell into darkness with the sun? His was a distant song; The homeland, which grew like a longing in his chest, was a silent prayer that kept chanting on his tongue.
Days are Saturday, dates are June 15th. Expatriates from cities began to withdraw like a small migration. It was a rather pompous exodus for their strange innocent village.
INTENTION TO LOVE
Whips crack in space,
My youth is running at full gallop.
While this youth is standing in the row,
My youth overflows wildly.
When you finish school,
Coming from the military
When you get a good job,
Hastily, intends to love,
Every rainy lad.
Why is unknown,
The reason is not asked.
Far far away in instant lusts,
He opens his heart to a pleasant love,
Making the connoisseur shed tears of love,
They listen to the jokes.
Accompanied by burning songs.
He looks at the beauties of the neighborhood with the corner of his eye,
Then he decides on one.
Ignoring your pride,
The heart begs for love from the girl,
He can't close his heart.
But the girl's heart is in another,
Behind the mountains he burned for.
Looking for his share without getting tired,
Throwing a fisherman's fishing rod,
He waits patiently as he waits.
It renews its intention for love with every born day,
They shudder into it,
It experiences four seasons in a minute,
The rains, snows, storms of your heart's restless heart,
The occasional flowery spring.
Crowded solitude, silence in the midst of noise, a timid smile between excited eyes. There is a different atmosphere in the village today, where the number of peers has increased. The world he was watching on that television lined up before his eyes. children getting out of their vehicles with different toys in their hands; they were showing an urban stance with their somewhat coy and somewhat spoiled demeanor.
Flowers blooming only on the branches here; not the sweet cherries in the mouth or the green grass scents that tell of rebirth; colorful toys were also the harbingers of summer.
It was now so close and so far away from the toys that occupied all the unfounded dreams. Picking up the cherry on its branch and eating it was not like running through the lush green forests in the countryside. Who was this plethora of toys for? He was too young to answer that, too old to suffer.
Or did his mother and father not love him? Or was he not a child enough to deserve to be a child?
Some live their childhood, grow up late; some stay in their childhood, which they did not live. And write for those children; It is a toy season when dreams turn into disappointments and sadness sprouts in hearts that do not grow.