Waiting for a Miracle


It’s a third day of strike that is held one block away from my house. Every morning I wake up to hear car horns and whistles creating a constant march rhythm that stops only in the end of the day. I wait for a miracle, for someone to agree with somebody on something.

If another miracle happens I will welcome it with my widely open arms. If a distant, unknown relative suddenly dies and leaves me a dilapidated, crumbling-down grand mansion in the countryside I will move in there right away.

I will put aluminum basins everywhere to gather the rain water leaking through the rotten roof.

I will run with an old dirty shoe in my hand hunting for enormous cockroaches.

I will grab millions of garden dry leaves into the huge piles and burn them till the sky turns black with the smoke.

I will sit there, on the worn-out sofa in front of the colorless threadbare carpet, drinking tea from a broken cup, eating mouldy cookies at the dusty table. And I will do it in miraculous silence, hearing only the birds singing their innocent and joyful songs.

Oh, I’m waiting for a miracle, for a miracle to come.


The Daily Post


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