The exit of the head of Al-Hussein from the treacherous cities

One of those who wipe the foreheads of rifles... I bowed when the officer smeared me with yellow insults I was still running through the darkness of fear... And the rifles were a legend that teases children Now I extended my arm to break the ice I did as I did in the childhood I lost And I was like a man imprisoned in his hasty dreams Forbidden from red bread Forbidden from clear water in the desert of the camp Forbidden We have nothing left in the tent Nothing remains except that star Either I eat from my shoulder or I stay in the desert, and I disbelieve... From a soldier's poem, words of a detainee