My son places his paint box in front of me

and asks me to draw a bird for him.

Into the color gray I dip the brush

and draw a square with locks and bars.

Astonishment fills his eyes:

“… But this is a prision, Father,

Don’t you know, how to draw a bird?”

And I tell him: “Son, forgive me.

I’ve forgotten the shapes of birds.”

…..

My son lays down his pens, his crayon box in

front of me

and asks me to draw a homeland for him.

The brush trembles in my hands

and I sink, weeping.

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