The ball laughs, radiant, in the air. He brings her down, puts her to sleep, showers her with compliments, dances with her, and seeing such things never before seen his admirers pity their unborn grandchildren who will never see them.

Each time a new war is disclosed in the name of the fight of the good against evil, those who are killed are all poor. It's always the same story repeating once and again and again.

In his life, a man can change wives, political parties or religions but he cannot change his favourite soccer team.

We are all mortal until the first kiss and the second glass of wine.

The world is a heap of people, a sea of tiny flames.

Soccer, metaphor for war, at times turns into real war.

No history is mute. No matter how much they own it, break it, and lie about it, human history refuses to shut its mouth. Despite deafness and ignorance, the time that was continues to tick inside the time that is.