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

I was one of those who wipe the foreheads of rifles... I bowed when the officer smeared me with yellow curses, I was still running through the darkness of fear... And the rifles were a legend teasing children. I extended my arm to break the ice... I stood up as I did in the childhood I lost, and I was like a man imprisoned in his hurried dreams. I am forbidden red bread, I am forbidden clear water in the desert of the camp. Forbidden... We have nothing left in the tent, only that star. Either I eat from my shoulder or stay in the desert, and curse...! From the poem "Words of a Soldier Under Arrest"