I harbor a cherished aspiration: when the tempest subsides and the thunder fades, I envi‐ sion transforming into a white dove, clutching olive seeds in its beak, and soaring into the clear blue sky toward a realm of eternal peace.
"Peace, " my mother asserts, "is the ritual serving of bread and milk every morning. " My father chimes in, "Peace is dancing to the piano's accompaniment each evening. " Books often depict peace as a dove carrying an olive branch. While mornings with bread and milk and piano-accompanied dances have become rare, my familiarity with olives and doves per‐ sists. Yet, vigilance is now essential, as cannon fire threatens to erupt unexpectedly. I must re‐ main prepared to take cover when bullets sud‐ denly fly. In a recent dream, amidst rippling puddles and sparks of distant fires, I heard pour‐ ing rain and felt the howling wind. Rain soaked my body as I sought refuge in the silence of dis‐ tant mountains and the tranquility of olive groves. I once experienced a sunny day; now, I yearn for an eternity of them.
I nurture an ambitious, almost celestial vi‐ sion: when the storm ceases and clouds of sor‐ row dissipate, I envision transforming into an ol‐ ive tree, rooted in the fertile soil of hope, thriv‐ ing amidst sunlit mountain ranges, sheltering the Odes of Human Magnificence.