The color of Communism is gray. Like the rain. It’s a cold, lifeless color. It has no feelings.
The color of my country was gray…our president’s words—even colder than the gray of the rain.
Poetry was hidden in codes; Philosophy was trembling in words that would have said a lot more only if…
The birds, flying in the gray sky were singing a song that very few understood. The thoughts would have flown along with the birds–if only for one time had tasted the flavor of freedom.
Flying was prohibited…
Flying was impossible…pieces of gray metal were flying in the air like a threat.
Birds, thoughts, ideas, embraces…would have flown if….
The color of the shy embraces was gray. My desire to embrace my mother is gray but I still fight to change this color, I fight with animal-force and the delicacy of a bird.
How I wish I could have white wings!
What is the color of my eyes? Is it…gray?
The eyes of the little girl were burning, because she had a desire to fly, because she understood the poems hidden in codes and because she didn’t KNOW the danger.
The eyes of the father were crying inside because he couldn’t show the fear.
The eyes of the little girl were watching the oranges. Watching. That was all. The little girl could taste the flavor of the oranges only for Christmas…but not every year. Perhaps the color of Communism was a lot stronger than the color of the oranges.
The little girl was watching the oranges waiting in the line for hours and hours. Others were buying and buying, while she was waiting.
Drops of water were filling her mouth…her turn to buy, her eyes burning…she was waiting…she was about to taste the flavor of Christmas in those oranges….her heart beating hard…
In those moments, the gray of the air would run away because her eyes were burning, because the orange would fill the world, because Christmas was about to come…and it wouldn’t because right before the little girl could buy…there weren’t oranges for her.
And year after year Christmas didn’t come!
Drops of water were filling her eyes…the gray was so heavy in the air! Next year…maybe next year…maybe Christmas will come next year!
Years later, three days before Christmas, the gray of the army jumped in the air filling young chests with death. Young chests that were burning with the desire to taste freedom. The gray of Communism fought, but the red of young blood won.
At last, the door of freedom was open and freedom entered the little girl’s world. The gray of the air went away!
Years later, Poetry, Philosophy, ideas were able to fly…
Years later, fathers could cry without fear…
Years later, songs about freedom filled everybody’s eyes…
Years later, white flying wings, filled the skies…
Years later, there were oranges!!!
My words are filling these pages…there’s an orange on the table where my tired hands keep writing. The orange is watching me, it’s calling me.
Drops of water are filling my mouth…I would eat it, but I can’t.
Drops of water are filling my eyes. I’m afraid to eat it. I want to save its image, color, flavor, smell…
Who is this little girl?
Why do oranges cry?
The sun is orange, but there are still gray dots flying in the air. It still hurts.
Christmas is Jesus now, and its flavor is LOVE now, but it still hurts.
The color of Communism is gray, a cold color, like the rain.
The color of the oranges is alive, it’s the color of the sun, it’s the smile of a little girl who simply DOESN’T KNOW and it’s the cheeks of a beautiful woman who smiles looking at the field filled with fruits.