Gaza sea..

He walks ..

His wrinkled cloak is loose and transparent. He rushes towards the bombed-out houses, rolls his sleeves back over his shoulders, lifts up the rubble, and pulls the baked goods under the tottering buildings.

He carries a huge machete and stands at the entrances to the city, as if he were its guard.

He is the one who blew the cement walls with his finger, and carried the fighters, the martyrs with suspended sentences, to return the land to its owners, and to inflict heavy death on the officers of death. He is the one who drove them in vehicles, at dawn, to destroy the fiery towers erected towards the fearful borders. He is the one who swept away with his braid the remaining soldiers at the entrances, until the miracle was achieved that surprised the terrified occupiers, who were led in panic and humiliation towards the chains.

He walks through the camps and towns, greeting the people.

He stands on a solid rock and says: The killers target children, women and innocent markets! Are these people? Or is it their booby-trapped travels that provide them with the pretext to burn tender meat, birds, infants and milky down? How can they establish “peace” with them, which only leads to destruction, racism, madness, genocide and graphic atrocities? What is left in them to love peace, and for us to believe that they are descendants of Adam?

They have seen him, but they do not know his name, exactly. However, the simpletons know, with the intuition of bright insight, that this sheikh is aware of the hypocrisy of the West, which justifies our annihilation and our removal from the lists of life! So they ask him: Have the Crusades ended, Sheikh, or is the entity of killing what represents the last Latin kingdom on our shores? And that is why they support it.. at the expense of our pure blood!

And after every hundred mass funerals, they hear him say to a man running toward the graves: How can some of our “brothers” embrace these monsters? And open their capitals to his reprehensible voices? And side with him, with their defeated statements or their despicable silence, in shooting children and windows of basil?

After the bombing, which is renewed every minute, he stands leaning on a building that the shells have not yet reached, and counts on his fingers the bombs that have fallen, and the martyrs... He stutters, and tries again, but stops, because the martyrs have exceeded the numbers..!

The sheikh looked into the goblet of fire; there is someone smiling at the bottom of it, he said! And the flames glistened on his lips; he will be born here, after the wreckage and the fragments, and he will have a magical throne, and his chariots will reach the migrating serpents of the coasts.

In His presence you excel yourselves, and if He looks at you, the miracle will be completed, and time will laugh at you!

His horses will be countless; their hides will be water, their wings will be mysterious, and his trees will seem like an antidote to hearts.

She carried him in her womb to avenge her, but he went beyond the ashes, and became skilled in knowledge and wildness, until he broke the neck of superstition.

-No glory without suffering-

The Sheikh cried until his beard was wet! Then he shouted: Victory! The Great! Wait for it..

His mother cries in labor pains. His enemies shall dine in hell, and there shall be no sun in the sky; he shall be the sun of the lands. He shall cover the earth with their blood, and pursue them to the last gasp. His masts shall rise, and he shall send down rain where he wills, and he shall pluck out the eyes of the falcons and the battleships. The hawks shall thank him, and he shall wipe out the vanishing cock's comb, and the images of his enemies shall vanish like the air. The trumpets shall burn, and metal shall melt with the screaming.

The valleys, pits and trenches will overflow with rot, worms and iron clothes, until the chicks belch, then fire and purity will creep in, and the summer clouds will rain, seven days and nights.

Perhaps his mother did not give birth to him, but he came out of the cauldron of wailing and oppression.

The dew will dry on his shirt, and peel off on the streams of sweat under the noonday sun.

He will enter the rebellious city, as they entered the cities of legends.

The lion will play the violin.

The wanderers will bring their boxes to him, and rejoice in his pardon.

The scent of the flower with the charcoal locks will bite his heart.

He is neither weak nor a prophet, but he forgets, as is the habit of humans, that there are traitors in the house.

He will reach the unknown and the distant, and the lost in the regions will talk about him, and they will weave around him the auras they want.

The gazelles will dance for him in the clouds, the belly of the stream will torment him, and he will dream of jasmine milk.

They will scatter rice as a decoration under its walls, and it will shine with white ink, and forests and dreams will swim on its walls.

When he reaches the summit, he will see a rugged terrain that only the gods can reach or cross, so he will be forced to take the path of the sea and the hearths.

He will tremble and shiver, this strong and stubborn one, and will not bow, for he is far from shame and the lust of wood. Nor will he be arrogant like a foolish colt.

His body will not let him down, nor will the days dare to attack him. He will remain a simple, ascetic worshipper...and a hero until his grandchildren grow old and carry the map of the soul to the soul of the soul.

Because slander is weakness, and vision is good news, there is no harm in laughing, you savages, because you will not even find tears, after a while.

It seems that his brilliance lies in the fact that he saved us from ourselves.

He is a heavenly fighter, and I see him; in the abundance of pomegranates, and on the soft shores of cunning, and in the saliva of the lamp, and in the cup of fire.

The Sheikh shouted: I see him... I see him!

What do you see, Sheikh?

He said: It is the beginning of the end, it is the end of the beginning.

Get ready, people!

Then he continued walking north and south, as if he was checking the situation. They often saw him wiping red tears from his eyes, gathering them in his hands, and pouring them out onto the thirsty fields.

His mouth was salty, his eyes were a deep blue, and his hair was strands of silver, almost as long as the horizon.

The shop owner said to him: I know you, Sheikh..!

He smiled and said, “I know your great-great-great-great grandfather. He used to play with me on the beach, and I attended his father’s wedding.”

He carries the wounded and the scattered remains in the markets, even if there are a hundred of them, on his arms, and rushes with them to the only remaining hospital.

He removes the rubble of the neighborhoods, reopens the road, and sprinkles water on the dirt.

His clothes were covered in blood stains, due to the many shrapnel and bombs that hit his body, so as not to hit the houses.

They see him sitting at the heads of the murdered children, crying, stroking their gaping heads.

He traces the ground with his finger, and a large, long furrow opens, to bury the victims. He remains by their graves, muttering over the fire and the spray.

He is an old man from the water, who lives near the houses on the Gaza coast.

He is the one who sneaks in from under the doors, to return to a woman who lost all her children.. He ties mint to her heart, and kisses her feet.

He is the one who throws the rubble away until he reaches the cotton toy, picks it up and returns it to that wounded, crying child.

With his fingers, he picks out the pieces of the demolished walls, the broken ceilings, walls and trees, and throws them into the sky... far away, and she gasps at the scattered light.

He is the one who restored the minaret, which they had split, to its original condition, and covered it with his shine so that it would remain standing... like an obelisk and a call.

He mounts his thundering horse and ascends to the heavens, to cry at the gates of the throne for mercy on Gaza.

He is the one who dug a stream with his fingernail to direct the exploding wastewater to the distant estuary, so that the fields and neighborhoods would not be flooded.

He is the one who runs like clouds at night, carrying bags on his shoulder... distributing them to the slaughtered and those gathered in the darkness.

He opens his artery for the anemones to flow, for the thirsty orchards to be quenched, and for its lands to explode with anemones and the flowers of the anemone.

After each bomb, the roads are washed, and what remains of the buildings and streets appears polished with a sharp, gleaming polish.

And I see him, squatting, his face to the east, his hands stuck like two pickaxes into the bottom of the southern border and the northern border, trying to carry Gaza by its roots, carry it to the balcony of his tall house, place it there, and surround it with his arms.

It's the sea.