Rape and its sisters

How did this homeless poet on the sidewalks of Damascus come to make wings for the rebellious dream from words, half a century ago, he came to the poetry table hungry, then turned the table on everyone and then slammed the door behind him and left, and like any wandering singer, complains of the pains of isolation and the ruin of the soul, sad to the point of screaming, and lonely like a lost Bedouin in the desert on a dark night, and here he is guided to the poetry compass, and invents a new equation for poetry, unlike any other equation since "Sadness in the Moonlight." And like the ancestors of Al-Khalil bin Ahmad Al-Farahidi, he explored seas of poetry but they are without shores, unconcerned with critics' opinions about what he writes, only attentive to the voice of his soul, as if every time he finds himself in a framework he destroys it, because he was born in the open where nothing is final in the wilderness of the mirage, here he is, or some of him, Muhammad Al-Maghout, and broader and wider illuminations with which the reader meets through these pages of dialogues that have taken their way with him.