There's a genie from the magic lamp that is as old and powerful as the time itself, the master of space and insignificant lives. We cannot see it; we only hear its steps. It takes away and destroys our hopes and dreams, our hearths and homes. Only the windmills, ships, kites, balloons and even some birds look forward to it. Its name is Whirlwind. It comes and goes whenever it wants, takes on its wings weak and helpless birds that don't have time to grow up and that cannot find shelter. They believe that they would be better off on the wings of the whirlwind. They yield to its power and set off into the unknown. Sometimes, these birds come back. Perhaps they are afraid of what is familiar to them or they are just running away from life, from themselves. They leave behind their young that, with sadness in their eyes, watch them disappear into the whirlwind and wait persistently for some new whirlwinds, hoping they will see them again. Some birds have to fly. Everything they've got is just a memory of the burnt nest and the whirlwind that will give them hope of finding their flock. These birds never come back. Their first stop is a place where they can find a glimmer of hope. There's a species of birds with extremely bright feathers, birds that aren't meant to be in cages. They fly because they want to, and because they know where they're flying to. They know all the whirlwinds, the old and the new ones, the slight and the strong. They wait patiently for the day when they will fly into the new beginning and rush to fulfill their dreams on the wings of the whirlwind. They know their way back, the question is whether they want to return. These birds are passed into stories and legends. When they fly away, a part of us that has been aware that keeping them in cages was a sin is quite content. And, then again, we look with sadness at the nests they have left behind. Everything is too uniform and empty without them. We look forward to the slightest whirlwind hoping that we'll see them again, so we stare at the clouds. All we can do is waiting for the carrier-pigeons.
On the wings of the whirlwind, author Suzana Stojanović, February 17, 2007