It is not the title of a poetic text by a world-class poet, but rather a harsh terrain, formed by the arrogance of brutal force, screaming in the barren land, and proclaimed by the ruined houses, and the pain, suffering, blood, and suffering that groan under their rubble.

Amidst the scattered corpses and limbs, under the columns of fire and smoke, and the piles of rubble in Gaza, Beirut, Damascus, and Sana'a, the burning question arises: Are national songs, anthems, and revolutionary slogans still possible? And is "The Arab countries are my homelands," which filled our hearts, was chanted on our tongues, and ignited the flame of hope in our anxious souls like a wind blowing beneath it, still effective, and has it not yet gone out of service?

The crow roams the wasteland, working his claws, his evils, his arts, and his madness, and revealing new skills in hunting his prey, with a lightness that matches his disdain for the laws of the jungle.

In the face of all the suffering we endure across the wasteland, brothers and friends have nothing to do but chatter on the banks of crossword puzzles that come out of the throats of the helpless, the dependent, and the dreamers: “Patience has limits,” while the crow caws and promises more devastation, devastation that has no limits, and is not restricted by restrictions, in the face of the tendencies of arrogance and dreams of control and expansion to establish the new Middle East.

“How alone you were, and this silence comes to us like arrows...” As if our poet and the pillar of our last tent was still neighing his poetic horses among us... Oh, our loneliness!

Stop the war of extermination and arrest the criminals now..!