Truce, the chapter of healing... Nothing, just nothing. I no longer feel pain. I'm fine.
I am no longer obsessed; I am healed. Truce... truce, and I faded, smoke followed by gray hair.
Take care of yourself, mother. For me.
It is no longer about you; everything we write now is for us.
The war has calmed, and the madness is sedated. For the first time, I feel human.
I see my hands—believe me, I see myself in the mirror and can touch myself.
I have reconciled within; my veins hold the stars, my lungs have made peace.
I feel pure—damn this chapter of healing.
Above the sky, it's just me and the world, all orange.
My split self... a truce, and the noise stopped.
Let us nap and replace the world with calm,
a safe euphoria without hashish.
I am still ash. Five-five-four-six, me and my cigarettes,
in the elite prison of the free, but we are fine.
Paradise consumes me. Now I am a bird, bearing offspring only from my own burning.
This is healing, ladies and gentlemen.
The world crumbles before the mass of our souls.
We are the orphan's tears as we wipe them with a single touch.
We are the mother's agony for her lost son.
We are the boat that never returned.
Don't cry, Mama, for we will all cry with you.
I am the homeless, and you are the hungry.
The sky is our roof; shall we rise?
We are the living among the dead,
and the dead if the matter rests upon us.
We are the first note at the wedding of a bride and groom,
a wedding we turned into music.
We are the poor neighborhood in the morning,
and God's treasure on earth at night.
The purest diamond pulses within us.
Our carat is salty tears.
Mama, no eyes will cry for you anymore.
Our truce, O world, let us rest a little from illness,
at least to heal the victims. Then, it's okay if the rebel perishes.
They felt shame and guilt,
and their hearts confessed—they longed to beat with something true.
Something simple, like love, that would rescue them from among the livestock.
We all slept peacefully, Mama.
And then what? Then God returned us to Paradise.
Little one, I stopped before your artery was harmed.
It almost eased, and then the orphan met his parents.
The burns in their eyes vanished.
A young Palestinian-Syrian passed by me, laughing, calling out:
"I told you we'd be here."
A Somali from Burma was hiding behind me:
"Can I come out now?"
"Don't worry, little one, come out. Those who hurt you are not here.
They are on another path. Let them go."
And it didn't end here.
I saw my mother and your mothers in a corner, laughing as if we never annoyed them,
as if they were fine, as if, in this truce, we healed.
Pride.
Truce, little one, I won't hurt you again. I am truly sorry.
Truce, humans, breathe a little. There isn't much time left.
Damn it, another chance for everyone.
Life, the queen of the universe, because another donated a fraction of her beauty to Melissza.
The equation is simple:
Don't let Life press her claws on your jacket.
Another one is jealous.
What about everything else?
Ashes. Ruins. Memories.
Stack them atop one another, and let her climb.
She is what builds my life now.
By the way, the healing is ours, gentlemen.
Truce.
i Remember when he said " There will be no winner, only multiple endings"