The

The apartment No, I don`t miss my old home the one I rebuilt from a stable till a house, although its soul never stopped being a stable a place for those who have no voice. Thick walls made by stone from the small land windows animals do not need light. But walls talk I still hear their murmur and the hoof of the mule scraping on the floor as it was dreaming of still ploughing the field and in pen, the pigs slept unaware that in the morning one of them would be slaughtered. I still hear it squeals when the truth dawned. So much history and no one will ever know what I have Seen and heard.