SPRDENOSCI
( e x t r a c t x x x )
I look at these two images and my animal soul contemplates the next two, the scent and ultimately, the trail!
In one, I see the prisoners. Young Slovenian men, blindfolded, in dirty striped uniforms, standing in the mud of their own country, waiting to be shot like dogs. Behind them, the executioners are blurred, distant, but still there – the ones who gave the order, the ones who pulled the trigger. They murdered hope itself that day. They murdered the future of our blood.
And then I look at the other picture.
There they stand again. The same kind. Only now they wear expensive suits, perfect ties, and stand on a shiny stage under red, white and blue lights like some twisted theatre. They smile for the cameras. They call it “democracy.” They call it “elections.” But I see the same blurred faces behind the prisoners. I see the same cold hands that have been bleeding Slovenia dry since the war. These are not politicians. These are the heirs of the shooting camps. Different clothes, same crime.
They have turned the entire country into one big shooting camp – only now they kill us slowly. They kill our children’s future, they kill our dignity, they kill every last hope we had left. They rob us of bread, of meat, of life itself, and they do it with a smile on their faces while the circus lights flash around them.
I have searched and searched the internet, but I cannot find a tent big enough to cover this cirkus. Because this is not politics anymore. This is the continuation of the massacre. These men are the beasts. Empty, merciless, and completely without soul. They represent nothing but their own hunger to keep sucking the last drops of blood from this nation.
I care. I care so deeply it hurts in my bones.
Those young men who were shot in the forests – they were someone’s sons, someone’s brothers, someone’s future. Their lives were worth everything. Their meat and their bread and their dreams were stolen from them. And now the same theft continues in suits and with microphones.
Enough.
"Mijaouw?", said my feral shadow cat, and, "Iščem in iščem po spletu, pa ne najdem dovolj velikega šotora, ki bi pokril ta cirkus."
It is time to dismantle this entire lie. The elections, the parties, the circus, all of it. These people must be banned from this land. They must be sent far away so they can never again touch Slovenian soil, Slovenian blood, or Slovenian children.
We owe it to the blindfolded boys in the mud.
We owe it to every life they destroyed then and every life they are destroying now.
This is not just an election.
This is the last chance to stop the murderers who never really stopped killing us.
I see them clearly.
And I will never forgive what they have done to us.
But they know it. And the dogs know it too. And beside the dogs there exists a countryside so nice and the graves of the forgotten.