 Dear UNICEF, I am a little girl, a flower, crushed by the hand of autumn, a child that did not get the chance to play. My story is out of a wanded senses, and silent scream, mourning my slaughtered keen. Do you want to know me? Don't look in books, all you'll find is the liquefied ink from my tears. I am the sister of a thirsty infant quenched by his blood, the daughter of a mother who stares at an empty cot, the cries of her babies haunting her dreams, paraded from city to city trapped in every slum we see. I am the little girl who cries herself to sleep in the hope to see her father again. His severed head is her silent gift. I am not dead, for I am alive, living proof of the love bestowed on every daughter who happily greets her loving father in her dreams. Gaia, until I sayne.