Clown

In a distant land, where the velvet curtains of democracy cover a scene, there was a great play every day. In the middle of this scene, there was a clown with yellow hair, a make -up face, and a smile that you never knew or satisfied.

He was the main clown of this circus. Her hands were spinning in the air, her feet trembled, sometimes she danced, sometimes she shouted angry, sometimes for no reason, in friendship with long -standing enemies. The people of the world were laughing. Some are astonishing, some with regret, and some with fear.

But fewer people knew the threads of this clown were in the hand. Behind the scenes, behind the velvet curtains, a group was sitting. Dolls that were drawn with cold and calculated looks. They neither participated in the elections nor appeared in the streets, but they were the final decision makers.

Years ago, in the same land, he was a president with clear eyes and a bold look. "We should not let the weapons that can destroy the world will fall into the hands of anyone, especially those who do not consider any country to be their own, but are involved in everything," he said.

He stood, but he didn't stand much. A bullet at a sunny noon finished.

From that day, the clowns came one by one. Each with a new color and dress, but all in the same group. Some tried to resist, but they made the yarn tighter. One laughed, scared one, silent with promises of gold and oil.

And now, the yellow clown was rotating on stage. Sometimes to the east, sometimes to the west, sometimes with fists, sometimes with kiss. But in his eyes there was something that all had clowns: fear. Fear takes away from the hands behind the curtain, and if necessary, they are removed.

The show continues, people are still laughing. But sometimes someone in the crowd asks:

Who wrote this show?

#behnammohtarami#