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The world went crazy on a summer's day in Central Park, In the time before uzis and berettas, before nine millimeter popguns ruled the streets. It was a Thompson, like the ones our fathers carried, and I recognized its rattle even as its big, man-stopping forty-fives punched blood and breath from my lungs. I hit the ground besides my daughter. She's been gutshot, badly, and when she saw the things that boiled and wriggled from her belly the expression on her face was not a little girl's. My wife bled out later on the operating table, her heart a gaping hole her life drained through. Whenever i get careless, that yearning in her eyes creeps up and brings me to my knees. Right then the old man's soldiers started strated shooting back. My son dropped wordlessly, without a mark on him. I took a breath that cut like glass, spat blood, rose to my knees, picked up the boy and searched in vain for entry wounds. The bullet had entered through his open mouth. That was our picnic in the park. And now every night I go out and make the world sane
NE MUTLU TÜRKÜM DİYENE !
Türk Oğuz beyleri, milleti, işitin! Üstte gök çökmedikçe, altta yer delinmedikçe Türk milleti, ilini töreni kim bozabilecek idi?"
BİLGE KAĞAN
<span class="bb_spoiler"><span>EKLEMEDEN ÖNCE PROFİLİME YORUM BIRAKABİLİRSENİZ SEVİNİRİM</span></span>
