In the presence of absence

There, I learned from the آثار النكبة المدمرة what will drive you to hate the second half of childhood. If a single piece of صوف كنز, expired, is not enough to make friends with winter, you will seek warmth in الرواية, and escape what you are in to a world written with ink on paper. As for الأغاني, you will only hear them from the جيران's radio. And as for الأحلام, you will not find space for them in a طيني house, built hastily like a chicken coop, crowded with seven حالمين, none of whom calls the other by name since the name became a number. الكلام are dry signals exchanged in extreme necessities, like fainting from سوء التغذية, then treated with زيت السمك... the gift of the civilized world to those who were إخراجهم from their ديار. You drink it reluctantly, just as you hate الألم for hiding its صوت in pretending to be رضاء.