When the bells ring, the children come running from the broken doors in the abandoned row houses along these deserted streets.
Secretly they all wish for something grander than this concrete meadow.
No flowers, no grass–only tufts of weeds popping up sporadically through the time-worn cracks of the pavement.
This land is like a flattened graveyard, and the children often write their names on the ground as if marking their eternity. They just forget to etch in the epitaphs. Maybe, every now and then, one of the older kids might stand up and recite a eulogy, not knowing of what he speaks.
Even as the sun hangs high and bright, the shadows engulf the sky with mighty palms, blotting out as much light as possible.
But, the kids are not deterred. They keep on playing, and talking, and walking, and praying, unaware that they are ghosts.
A child’s spirit is a wondrous thing, even in the face of a silent forever.