In a land faraway, we used to lead the lives of vagrants. We slept in dust and woke, tasting dirt on our tongues. Tore savagely into stale bread, choking on hard crumbs and bitter anger. We collected shattered glass in alleyways, scooping up the twinkling shards to give to the glass smith, whispering, “Here, sir, is all that we have in the world. Will you buy our fortune?”
It was a time of gypsies. When we would run under the sun, whooping as we chased butterflies and the twinkling mirage of a distant city. When we would roll among soft grasses in eternal fields of green. Weave circles of vine and call them crowns.
Yes, we were born in a land under the blazing sun, where colored glass encrusted the streets and dirty children reigned in the hills. Where we would laugh with tears dripping down our cheeks, leaving trails in our dust-coated skin. Those were wretched, beautiful times.