Oh no, my little one, your snowy loins are gashed. Now your child's treble makes a horrible babble. This will kill your father. School Bells Artillery shells are the only bells that call children to school in Sarajevo. Gone now the pretty, low buildings , the nursery colours, the nature table.
Little ones sit on the kerb-side, mere debris ready for the final sweep.
Images of war, like icons of style, sell the Sundays at the corner shop. A trapped Muslim behind the jamb listens for her killers not a mile away but comfort comes on page forty with Polo Nouveau. Actually, the lasting interest is the impeccable art work. An Autumn breeze played in the trees and cherries lay ready for the reaching. Teta Pave, fled to Zagreb, couldn't scold them anymore.