She heard no music. She heard no screams. The roaring cataract meant nothing to her. The raging wind said nothing to her...
Not of blood rivers
Not of falling bodies
Not of festering wounds
Not of clothes ripped off
Not of hearts plucked out
Not of tears wrung dry
Not of souls cracked and broken
Not of voices that died long before they were born...
In the shadow of the mighty mountains, in the burning chill, she sat doing what she had to - for, she was a mother and she was knitting dreams..