When they’re allowed to return home, they gather together – not quite a mob or a crowd, but like the way children are gathered into their father’s arms. One by one, they look up, and run.

It is a day when they’re allowed to sing in their own language again, when their graveyards become a sacred place instead of a valley of death, and when choruses of children bloom all around.

One by one, they unload their carts and belongings; things they can finally call their own, placing each item in its own place which will become the new origin. And when night comes, they settle in their beds and study what it means to rest.

For the first time, they dream a collective dream – the kind that no one can remember when they wake up in the morning, but puts everyone in a pleasant mood for the rest of the day. For once, life is better than reality, and they are where they belong.


Blah blah blah

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