To my beloved Brother in arms

I have just received your second daughter’s pictures, event for that you have been given so kindly congratulations from all Brothers, which have so much enjoyed your happiness: a new life, a new mercy.

Embrothered by your delight none dares to a bad thought, that means, to a real thought. But me, on this marshland exile, I look up the memories of closer pictures and I find anti-personnel landmines in Mostar and dead children testimonies in Rwanda. I cannot but imagine how easy it would be to open this fragile throat and let its bleeding be the floormat of our live.

May be one day she stars a selective rapping episode in an ethnic washing-programme, whose collaborators will never be prosecuted by international justice -Drago is no Pinochet, any judge can make no headway such popularity.

May be one day she thinks up a normal life for a southern girl, may be she acquires a husband that hurts her so much, may be one day she demonstrates asking for his teeth-away punishment or castration for violators.

May be her twenty years old neuronal networks be operated by supervisory control techniques, as I am now thinking up for irrigation of these swamps; may be the design of hers so unworried as of theirs: it doesn’t matter if there grow pumpkins instead of rice.

It is for all these, and for many other things, that I cannot cheer with you, young Brother. Because from today on there is one more life in hell, what Al-Satan victoriously celebrates in all the taverns of the world.