Careless trains of hope and scratches from where blood keeps overflowing, the world does not wish to change. Confused between future and past, from creation to innovation, we think of the whom and forget the why s, in an unbalanced life stuck at a point in time beyond the past tense, yet trying to foresee a probable and unlikely future. Cannot we protest, the voices of a billion is not as loud as the voice of one.
The bright sun on the road blinds us to our unclear path, to which humans still devoted themselves to light up some more candles of hope, and we cry. Hope, you make us cry, you are an imaginary ideal planted and watered in our fertile soil, you are the growing despair of our humanity.