people's voices overlapped for days, they have soiled, stained, much of that land, either greased by rain that wets the skin of all.
Silence. It is not said as much about them.
"They were dirty ", he whispers again, and the newspapers are silent but they shouted, the words spoken in haste, with too much haste to be sincere:" Those Roma, are more difficult to train dogs. " So I was wrong not
four Roma children. They're dirty, they are animals, to train. There are too many, but four too many. Tiny black spots will darken the white skin. The innocent eyes become bruised. Son
different, I'm dirty, I am too. Instead, perhaps it is, I'm just dead.
Maybe they were dogs. Everyone is blaming the breed with the most beautiful in France.
Hot Dogs ... Maybe.
would die with a little 'dignity. Torn, crumpled and burned.
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