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Human rights stories: children of Aleppo

Words are over, for us.
Trapped in a nightmare.

Maybe we only escape to reach more or less manipulated images.
Blurt between an alleged beautiful diva and a new super-equipped gasoline drinker.
At worst normalized in the large muffler called world news.

Maybe we even go out in an inspired speech.
In the sense of made by other heart and mind.
Even in a warlike gathering of cheaters dressed as doves.

We could also get out in a prayer, even if said as heaven commands.

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