Tears of Peace

By Fatmir Terziu The vetch of autumn awoke me. Tears of Peace crawling on the Scythian glass left its grey charm, hastily gaining a stealthy hand over the darkened face of the sky, then instantly signing for less darkness. Arrogant over the Thames, the toothless sun appeared like a moving Persian rug, in order to dust off the Tears of Peace. Designs with dark-brown cords took over my window, ropes were tied on the door, it was simply a vision. Tears of Peace had settled on the eyelids, specially to tickle me, tears are not as in fairy-tales, peaceful even when they move.