When I was little, I used to lay outside and reach my hands up to the sky above, convinced I could touch the great moving clouds if I just extended my arms a little further... Now, fourteen years later the before white sky is a bunch of gray tones with red spots covering every blue hole. The ashes and the smoke of the war, the daily remember of the ones dead because of bombs are the new reality. I hate second thinking about whether or not get out to buy some food, if its worth it not to starve for the risk of dying. All the noises the birds and child's once made have turned into bomb alarms and flying missiles.

When I was little, I used to believe in my chances of reaching the sky, one day, being a grown up man, I'll lay outside look up at the sky and convinced try to touch those clouds.