I remember a time when I was small,
somewhere around six.
I'd always worry about not knowing
what happens next.

My grandma would say:
"You're too young, it doesn't matter.
Just enjoy your life while you can do that."
But I wouldn't stop thinking:

What happens when we die?

I'm terrified, and I feel it in my skin,
my stomach, my bones.
What happens when I die?
And I'm trembling.

She wouldn't answer that honestly.
"Honey, you have a long life to live before that.
You're not gonna die.
I should worry about that, not you."

No, not me - l'm too young.
But then we read these news stories about six-year-olds dying in a series of bombings.

Were they allowed to wonder what happens next?
Were they thinking about death?

Solomia, who will never hug her mom goodnight again,
or Ivan, who will never go to school.

Way too young.

It's undeniable – we're dying,
slowly or faster – decaying,
as a society, as people,
ruining our lives.

If six-year-olds aren't allowed to wonder about death,
they shouldn't be dying.