SARAJEVO KIDS WAR-CHORUS
part.1 or
ABRACADABRA*
A loving doctor,
uncle-Trol,
replied in disgust:
you can knock me off whole but I won’t be working for those,
who are collecting chirpy notes
for their monstrous musical compositions
from the babies throats.
Indeed,
some delicate dying sounds coming from the Pioneer Valley next-door,
the Mom clinic,
did not reach the ear drums of any Sarajevo corridor czar,
let alone of those ruling in the outside world.
But they touched the War Rhymes tympanums,
which vibrated,
at once,
with pain.
That is how the opening tones of Sarajevo kids war-chorus were recorded.
That's why The War Rhymes urged me
to put them in a literary form.
The narrative begins:
When the metal, lethal notes started showering down from the hills wreaths-like circling the city of Sarajevo,
in the Mom Clinic,
the Pioneer Valley first neighbourhood,
six incubators were busy with keeping alive
six
premature born
babies;
the future men.
Able not,
or not wishing,
to breathe,
or live,
in what's called ordinary world.
But the death-concertmasters from the hills had already decided for them.
To play, namely, whenever they go on the razzle,
(meaning, day and night),
on the keyboards of their war-synthesisers.
In order to produce
Sarajevo
kids
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