Drawing for Noor Nasrallah

Sallam Azzam writes: Tie

The place is quiet smells rancid light gray, early in the morning, and silence hangs over its narrow space.

The roundabout is in the heart of the arena, lined with dark eyes, attached to the arrivals and received and deposited car traffic.

Time is like a sword  cuts off hopes, and the sun soars in hurry between buildings, recognizes it and then warms the place and blows its heart, which is used to waiting.

So… everything’s the same, three days ago, and he didn’t find work.

Traveling on the sidewalk around the roundabout of the arena, he goes to the sidewalk opposite, he looks back at that big military helmet lying on its shadow, he returns to the arena and he says to himself that it’s a monument to the unknown soldier!

Only he and his head had that big helmet crowded with confused memories of the army.

He goes to the oven nearby, whispering in a pale voice: “And today there’s no work… for the record.”

He takes a bread bundle.


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