In the Caucasus, hope has a name: the Khari Bulbul.😀😀

It was a hot summer. The heat was heavy. Hoping for shade, for rain, for a breeze, he lifted his eyes to the sky. The sun blinded him. Disheartened, he lowered his head, sighed, and his gaze drifted to the field standing before him. Empty. That field, once full of people, was empty. He recalled that time so distant he thought he had dreamed it. He remembered how children used to marvel at the sight of him. How lovers tenderly caressed his petals, how the Achiks sang him songs. How he was praised and idolized.

He remembered those happy days that came before the dark ones. When the blood of war painted his pure petals scarlet. When the songs of nightingales were replaced by gunshots. When puddles of rain were replaced by puddles of blood… He remembered how one day his life was savagely taken when a heavy boot trampled him. His stem broken, his petals on the ground, he let life leave him slowly and painfully in the mud and blood.

Then, he resurrected. Year after year. Coming back to life each time with new hopes. With a hope for peace. Then, a hope for rest. In the hope of hearing once again the melodies that once lulled him. Despite the exhaustion and the passing years, he clung to that hope and that dream. Twenty-six years, twenty-seven years, he was afraid of losing count…