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Change


by Christensen Sen


And so the winds of change blew from Hilda Park to the last frontier of the eastern bloc. The heavily guarded border that once separated the east from the west is gone, Its high walls sledge-hammered into a million dusts, barbed wires released from her eternal coil and the rusty iron gates flung open like arms yearning for a lost emancipation.

From the water tower, a sentinel ran his eyes along the rubble of what was left of the wall. The barrel of his Kalashnikov leveled across the barren strip that stretch for miles from his post and finger half pressed around the cold numb steel of the trigger. Finally sensing that it was over, he slid the safety lock back and poured himself a stiff shot of Vodka.

A streak of light struggled against the heavy clouds along the horizon. It was the late part of the year and snow has just stared to arrive.

Those of us who remained committed to the movement gathered into formation along the snow covered grounds. The officer cleared this throat as if to spit out the remains of the day. And in this most unusual tone he let out a command that cut through the icy atmosphere flinging echoes down the hallowed grounds of the camp we stood in full attention and paid out last homage to the flag.

Slowly the once iconic and mighty red flag with its hammer and sickle symbol of great collective struggle, was eased down from its pole. This time it descended in silence. No marching band. No parades. No hymns, just the constant symphony of the wind that came all the way from the Baltic sea

We stood there in the cold for a long time, in the shadow of the chancellor. From the Baltic sea we drifted down to the Frait Depression until we found safe passage in the land of the chancellor. Across the outskirts of this remote region where the tillers of the land embraced the birth of a red dawn and where the land drenched in the golden red burst of the early sun, we planted the seeds of the Neu Revolution of a totalitarion state. Promised of a better life, we were willing to face demise. We may die but revolution never came without a price.

Hola!
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