This is the story to my nickname, please read it:
For these peculiar institutions, that are so well-known to man. When your heart is made of stone, are quite hard to understand. It was the year of 1990, and the Berlin Wall was down. And a thousand years regretted, now laid burried in the ground. And the prophets read the future, and the omens all seemed kind. In the classic words of Dickens, it surely was, the best of times.
A wind came across Europe that would twist and turn our fate. For as well as bringing freedom, it had let loose men of hate. Now these men were few in number, and the people threw them out. But int he mind of each man's neighbor, they had planted seeds of doubt.
In every book of history, it is written how it's done. If you want to change the world, you need only change the young. And Serdjan Aleksic stared deeply through the night. But your vision's not the same when you're staring through a sight. And a rifle's not enough when you don't wish others well. So he angled out his mortar, and he dropped in his first shell.
In the world of death and muder, they're those who do the deed. But waiting in the shadows, are the men who sowed the seeds. They make their thirty pieces, selling guns to all who pay. And when bullets pierce the flesh, they are safely far away. And back in Sarajevo, a girl stood inside a room. Listening to men called merchants offer guns to forestall doom. They said they came to help when the Muslim plight they heard. But what they somehow failed to mention, was they said the same things to the Serbs.
An old mad had toured the earth, playing cello for the learned. Of a thousand foreign cities, only now he had returned to the city he had once left, to the place where he was raised. In the house where he was born in, at the fires he now gazed.
Then he climbed atop the rubble of the fountain in the square. And he took his cello out in the cold November air. And as the twilight started setting on the remnants of this day, as the shells began to fall, the old man began to play. And in the darkness of that night, each on their own respective sides, the Muslim and the Serb would watch their country's suicide. But now inside each evening, they had found a moments calm. When they'd hear the thoughts of Mozart, as they filtered through the bombs.
And who will love the incest child of ignorance and hatred? Who though she's standing in the rain, no tear has penetrated. For while the banter about their words, you must be careful where you tread. For no matter what they promise, rumor is that dead is dead.
And when he came upon the schoolyard, their were bodies on the floor. Every war must have its bodies, but this my friends was so much more. For the mind gets used to bodies, whether singly or in piles. But it cuts the mind more deeply, when the bpdy is a child's.
Now, though the old are often forgotten, they tend not to forget. And the old man came each night, and played his soul's regret. But this night the sound cut deeper as if the soul itself would leave. For snow covered the ground, and the night was Christmas Eve.
When the shells had ceased their falling, the young Muslim and the Serb, listened for the old man's music but now not a note was heard. And fearing what had happened, each did what should not be dared. And made their way through no man's land to the old medieval square. They arrived at the same moment in the cold December air. But neither pulled a weapon, for each knew why they were there. And they walked over to the fountain, and found him laying their in death. There was blood upon his face, the smashed cello on his chest. But then a single drop of liquid fell from out of the cloudless sky. And it fell upon the cheek of the man who had just died. And the soldier felt a shudder, for the worst had come he feared. When the only sign of pity, was a gargoyle's tear. He turned to the young woman, and he said let's leave this war. But a soldier and his uniform was all she saw.
Then they left the square together, 'neath the fading fire's light. And the gargoyle watched and wondered on that winter's silent night. And so our story's over, and for anyone who cares... As for the old gargoyle, I believe that he's still there.
