The holy ghost of the weekend stripped me of my spine, making me the void creature of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein as I look at the photograph of my not-so-long lost friends.

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I was one of those lucky ones who got to leave the country.
But we were students. Scholars. Were we? We were. Still…

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We had our hands clasped as if to never let go,
identical white scarfs and black dresses—for a protest of the past.

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But those were happy moments, you know, that photograph was a happy moment as we had 
oxygen to breathe, land to walk, home to live, water to drink, universities to study…they are still alive, maybe.

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Happiness is short-lived they say, I guess, that's why our clear sky turned into the cinnamon
and then into a violent storm but that's not it.

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Our days were taken, degrees perished, studies wasted, knowledge questioned, and thrown into a dystopian world when they dumped missiles on us just like they dumped bullets in our heads, just like they dumped knives in our chests.

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If my dead soul could talk it would have told you about the streams of blood, the shredded body parts, the tears, and the vanishing souls of the living people.

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But as students, we lost more lives than limbs, like we do every year, upon year, upon year, upon year. And yet, it's not over.

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My friends? They became the alumni of people who never leave, whilst,
I became the alumnus of people who lived as dead.