(A Prose Poem by Adnan Lermontov)
At the center of the city, a little girl, in a red-and-yellow frock, fell from the sky, face down. It was the high-noon of a very hot day. She wasn’t breathing, but she wasn’t bleeding either. Someone turned her over, and not a scratch to be seen anywhere. She was no more than six years old. Her big eyes were closed, lips slightly open. She had long hair, almost as long as a young adult woman’s. There were three moles on her right cheek, which did all the tricks, and made everyone to say, “She is an angel, oh, how beautiful!” No one recognized her, for she wasn’t like any other little girls they’ve ever seen. She wasn’t from where they were from, she was a stranger. She was more beautiful than what their imagination could ever dare to create.
“I’ve always wanted my daughters to be as beautiful.”
“Oh, she is so young, so young.”
“What a way to go!”
“She would have been the most beautiful bride.”
“She is beyond help. She is dead.”
“Nothing can help her anymore. She is with the God.”
“I wonder how many years are stolen from her.”
“What a pity! She is gone before tasting her first kiss.”
“Who is she? Is she like us? One of us?”
“Look at the sky; it’s dimming, making her look more beautiful, even in death.”
“Well, we all know she is dead, but let us still give it a try.”
They all looked at each other, and stood there in silence. Then a flock of crows fell from the sky on the little girl.