I am like the pomegranate tree, but all my branches have been cut, broken, and buried with the dead. My heart has become a shriveled pomegranate beating with death and falling every second into a bottomless pit. But no one knows. No one. The pomegra...
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i. I'LL CRY TODAY.
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Can one genuinely persist in loving their mother's land even after witnessing the embodiment of hell all around them?
The straightforward response to this poignant question would seemingly be a resounding "no." Yet, regrettably, life seldom grants such uncomplicated answers to everyone. It becomes an arduous task to gaze upon the very soil upon which one was born and come to the unsettling realization that nothing good seems to emanate from it. Wounded hearts find it difficult to forget, and the pain lingers persistently. Some choose to silence and bury their anguish, allowing it to simmer and brew within until it inevitably reaches a boiling point, causing an explosive release. Others are fortunate enough to have the opportunity to raise their voices, only to be swiftly silenced before their words can reach receptive ears.
No escape seems plausible; they are taught to bear the burden, to fulfill their duties, and persevere through the darkness that envelopes their homeland. Always reminded of those who dared to tango with malevolence, only to meet a tragic end, they soldier on, learning how to dance with their own demons while carrying the weight of their sorrow and discontent.
There was no turning back for Eureka Copperhead now. She was destined to work until her last breath, unless she was one of the fortunate souls spared from being chosen for that horrid killing game. Nevertheless, she held onto the belief that she would persevere, dedicated to her job until the end. Despite her resolve not to retaliate, her father's words echoed in her mind from her younger days, assuring her that she would always have a spark within her. A spark that could get her into trouble but would never be extinguished.
Sleep often eluded Eureka, leaving her yearning for more rest each morning. Yet, she pushed herself to rise from her meager sleeping arrangements – nothing more than thick blankets stacked one on top of the other. Poverty plagued her life, and she longed for the luxury of having money, especially during these dreadful mornings made worse by the humidity.
