Volibor

The dust over the city settled; breathing became easier. Everywhere you could hear the roar of locusts and the laughter of people streaming along the street in a drunken stupor. A holiday. We’ve won again. How many times has it been already? I’ve lost count. And did I even want to count the war I didn’t want any involvement in? But it rolled over us like a tank every half year, not giving us a chance to recover—again and again. All that remained was to live in anticipation of the next battle and to enjoy food and those fleeting, calm evenings in wartime’s brief respite.