Children's hospital bombed in Syria: before the story is over

Stories and News No. 930

A children's hospital in Aleppo, Syria, has been hit in recent air strikes.
A driver of ambulance and at least two children died after a night of shelling.


Immediately before the story is real...

“Come on, kids,” says the man with the strangely white coat. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Asks the first child, the less wary one.
“I'm sorry. I meant let’s back.”
“Where?” Repeated the other one, the more thoughtful child.
“In the only place left.”

“Which?” Says the first, the most talkative among them.
“Forgive me. I meant what could have been.”
“Which?” Inquires the other, the only apparently devoid of originality between the two.
“The kingdom of ungrammatical conditionals, in the land at the side of possibilities, beyond the boundaries of disillusioned illusions, in the sea on the painting without canvas.”
“Now?” Asks the usual child, the more hopeful one.
“Oops, what careless... I did not say when? Now and in all forgotten priors, at any short or long days instant, more than ever in each fundamental parentheses preceding the obtuse endings.
“Now?” Inevitable echoes the other, with slower imagination, but no less eager to believe.
“Why, otherwise, would I have prepared the vessel, my little friend? Why would the sails be ready to fly? Why? Have we any alternative to a already canceled present, even before it was written?”
“Here I am”, exclaims the first following the unlikely captain.
“Did you say Captain? Well, here we all are, because the retroactive imagination has no owners. The game has no winners. And the important thing is not to participate, but to survive.”
“Here I am”, screams the other joining to the crew.
Fragile as the illusion that you can really change the most cruel tales just rewriting them.
“But it's only an ambulance…” Says the first looking at the latter, over the debris that slowly try arrogantly to bring everything back to normal fierce.
“But it's only an ambulance…” Observes the other, now that he had become convinced of being awake.
“I am humbly sorry for that,” murmurs the fading afterglow of a mistreated martyr even in death.
“Come anyway on board of the naive page, and close together let’s flee away from the large fire burning only small lives. If not real, before this story is over…”


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