It all seemed as though the Supreme Self sought out the complete sorrow of this world, partly in Kozari Bok, and partly in Kozari Puteva. Apart from the fact that we had the factory chimneys from which it was continually sucking smoke and the black river of toxic sewage waste, we were planted with sad groves in front of the school. Of all the plants and trees on this planet, those sad saddles of us ...

Still, we have somehow managed to turn all the sadness and ugliness into amazingly easy. Or at least tolerable. In the canal were throwing stonewalls and organizing a competition in the making of "frogs", and the saddle ones became the central place for playing crocodile during vacations. Right there, under these crevices, after a long time when I was already in the back, I saw them last time ... Two happy boys, under the two sad jaws ...

They hanged on the branches, laughed, fell. Two little children, two born brothers, from the same mother and father, with the same destiny.

And the goddamn destiny wanted their father to be a dreary night watchman, some more deadly factories, a lame bully with a legal weapon and a beautiful woman. It was just her beauty that she was annoyed by more than anything. This portrait of a blurred mind is a long, night-time shortening imagining his wife cheating him, replacing another, better, more successful. Completely lost, their lives slowly and safely pretended to hell and kept their pretty wife afraid of panic because she knew what we did not - that her husband and father were ready to kill her children.

It was very early. The sun was trying to break through the foggy village when the emergency sirens were heard.

The shocked neighbors watched the white team look silent. One, second, third, fourth ... fifth. The frustrated night watchman ruled the woman, the children, the man they lived in, and then to themselves.

I came in at the moment when two small bags were placed. There were cluttered brothers, two lifeless bodies whose two little souls found security in the branches of the saddle.

And everything, all the ugly in this neighborhood, we managed to turn it into a nice one.

Only the story of a boy whose names of the pain I do not speak can not be glorified.

They are only trying to do that. If you do a little while, you can hear how whispering the wind through the crown carries a cautious and worry-free laugh in the greenery of the anointed little fraternal souls.

Author: Snježana Vučković