A flower of Hope has been planted in my heart.
At the start, it bloomed and blossomed into something magnificent, and its radiant colors were everywhere.
They were in my eyes when I woke in the morning.
They were in my laugh when I looked out the window to see the sun shining and the birds flying freely through the sky.
But soon, my flower of Hope began to wilt.
The radiant colors were gone from my dull, grey eyes.
When I looked out the window to see the sun shining and the birds flying freely through the sky, I did not laugh.
I never laughed.
Instead, I looked away.
Why should the birds be so free while there I was, trapped in a horrible nightmare, death being my only escape?
I looked around and I saw the soldiers.
And I saw their guns.
Guns, pointed at weak, beaten figures that surely would not make it through the day.
Guns, pointed at mothers and fathers. Sisters and brothers.
I saw the fear in the eyes of young, innocent children as their childhood dreams vanished.
I saw the grief, the agony, in the faces of women as their children were torn from their arms.
I looked at the face of a soldier standing near me and saw only hatred and disgust in his cold eyes.
He was pointing his gun at a little boy.
A boy without a mother.
And I wondered why no one stepped forward to protect this little boy.
Why did the world stand by and watch as this little boy, and millions of others, were murdered?
Now, my flower of Hope is slowly withering.
I stare at it, a crumpled mess down by my feet, as it rots.
Just like the millions of dead bodies that surround me.
The bodies of mothers and fathers. Sisters and brothers.
For a while, I had nothing but Hope.
Hope for tomorrow.
Now that my Hope is gone, there is nothing left of me but the blood and blisters on my hands and feet.
Blood, blisters, and dull, grey eyes.
But, at least, when my flower of Hope was taken from my heart, my Fear went with it.
I cannot fear Death when I do not hope to live.
