And then it happened.
The last person asking for food finally succumbed to famine.
Her name was Mary. She was 10 years old.
The doctors run to help her, exhausted from hunger, but still able to move freely.
People bringing the humanitarian aid to the forbidden border cried massively in an ineffable pain.
The soldiers lowered their guard and went to celebrate. After all, the 24/7 shifts were finally over.
The city then, for weeks,
remained in deaf silence.
The news covered the issue casually in their lower credits,
while announcing the winner of that year's Nobel Peace Prize.
(The following year, the winner was a politician
whose social crusade was to clean the city of bodies and debris).
Today, in the newspaper,
I saw this open land sale to invest in luxury hotels.
The name of the city in question sounded painfully familiar.
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