• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 12
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Nothing new

Have you ever looked into the faces, the brown, deep-shadowed sepia faces, of those children from another time, when everything was brown, colour of rotting leaves?

The huddle of little girls on a doorstep, one doll between them, smocked and wrinkle-socked, boys huddled, unsure if their pose is manly enough, wrinkle-socked and hand-me-down trousered?

Look deep into those hollow eyes, the reproachful gaze that lingers, like the sight of a dead cat by the roadside, beneath the peaked toy soldier cap, the hand, thin-wristed shielding from the gritty city sun.

See aspirations, fragile as baby birds that died before they flew, love that never flourished, children never born, dreams and trust betrayed. Read the message this time, perhaps, though it’s been so long.

This city was built by men in slick suits with dirty hands, on the bones of little messenger boys and guardian girls. Remember that.

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