I used to seek refuge in the village by the river whenever its face turned pale and its wrinkles became imminent, and I evaporated the threshing-floors with prayers that stifled their intoxication, so that they would yawn for a long while, while evil faces popped in the bonfire, emerging from the fire, and then turning to ashes.
I was the watchman who saw the lantern go out in the room of the girl who wrote a song with henna on her palms, wrapped them in the white cloth and slept, the watchman who saw the angels support the water pitcher left on the roof to cool slowly as she wanted to slide it over the feverish child's head, I was the watchman who believed in his shadow rising on the tree and his long rifle orphans and lonely.
And the poor rejoice in their empty stomachs, and the dust of hunger falls on their shoulders from the ceiling of stolen dreams. My gun was an olive branch, and my house was where the grass grows. That is why I guard the village, and without a guard, I live as if I were sent all this night, while the dawn is stuck in an abandoned well on the hill.
There are many reasons that make my heart hard or make me a being disfigured by the wars that I have experienced, and because I am a being who does not have the tools to defend himself in front of the horror of machines, I decided to draw up a very precise plan.
Between every two points in life, I will place a man of bullets who does not fear death and does not hesitate to commit ugliness, a man who shaves his chin with bladed weapons, washes himself in bad blood, and sleeps on body parts.
As for battlefields, front trenches, and specifically under bullet boxes. I will build a weapons factory, I will fence it with barbed wire, and as a precaution, I will make the wires encircle the gardens and forests and wrap harshly around the necks of children.
For this, and for other reasons that I may not be aware of, or I may not know how to explain them, I discovered that killing and hunger are two instincts in harmony with the world, two enormous wealth. Prosperity and a comfortable life forcefully push the creature to enjoy death and get high in graves.
I was the watchman who saw the lantern go out in the room of the girl who wrote a song with henna on her palms, wrapped them in the white cloth and slept, the watchman who saw the angels support the water pitcher left on the roof to cool slowly as she wanted to slide it over the feverish child's head, I was the watchman who believed in his shadow rising on the tree and his long rifle orphans and lonely.
And the poor rejoice in their empty stomachs, and the dust of hunger falls on their shoulders from the ceiling of stolen dreams. My gun was an olive branch, and my house was where the grass grows. That is why I guard the village, and without a guard, I live as if I were sent all this night, while the dawn is stuck in an abandoned well on the hill.
There are many reasons that make my heart hard or make me a being disfigured by the wars that I have experienced, and because I am a being who does not have the tools to defend himself in front of the horror of machines, I decided to draw up a very precise plan.
Between every two points in life, I will place a man of bullets who does not fear death and does not hesitate to commit ugliness, a man who shaves his chin with bladed weapons, washes himself in bad blood, and sleeps on body parts.
As for battlefields, front trenches, and specifically under bullet boxes. I will build a weapons factory, I will fence it with barbed wire, and as a precaution, I will make the wires encircle the gardens and forests and wrap harshly around the necks of children.
For this, and for other reasons that I may not be aware of, or I may not know how to explain them, I discovered that killing and hunger are two instincts in harmony with the world, two enormous wealth. Prosperity and a comfortable life forcefully push the creature to enjoy death and get high in graves.