Injured of the sky

I stopped the permissible poetry because a small yellow scorpion crept nearby, urging its steps toward a soft body, and I was about to crush it, but I couldn't find a stone ready to fight the scorpions of the islands.. I told the story: "Let it.. crawl inside your corners.. we need its venom whenever the ghost of the late Arab ruler invades us.. let it grow inside you, its venom is still unripe for the success of democracy in these empty deserts of humans..." And she lost herself again, searching for the sea.. They said it would dry up after the Asr prayer, and return to the tide between Maghrib and Isha. She sat on the edge of the sea, greeting it with both her hands, here she is returning from a long absence, and she doesn't know how many years have passed.. nor does she know if this time can accommodate the story.. She heard a distant phone: "Come on.. hurry.. pick this day.. don't let the sun be stolen again from this island."