PLAINTIVE NATIVE

The world is smoking again - not from romance, but from the habit of burning. Everything around seems to be recycling the apocalypse: the sun sets, children turn away, old stories of war return with new captions. And in this chaos, there is no cry, but a calm, measured “another war” - as if it were weather news.

Sarcasm here is not a defense, but a way to survive. Each line is like a blow to the keys of an old piano: harsh, but melodic. The air is heavy, time is devalued, conscience is on the cash register receipt. And yet inside there is a strange liveliness, like a spark under a layer of ash. Because despite the dust, smoke, and fatigue, someone still asks, “Don't you care at all?”