Lately, my eyes—weighted by the harrowing details of genocide and worn by the dust of my home’s ruins—fail to perceive the world. Something within them falters, forcing them to forsake the silent 'spring of inanimate things' that lingers around me.
Everything has dissolved into gray, drifting in a closed loop of mute screams—audible only to the ants, the stones, the trees, and the beasts; sensed by every living pulse, save for humanity.