A message from the sea

It was my country, it was... and it's the hardest word in the heart. How was my country I don't quite remember because we humans forget the best times of our lives, while we don't forget our tragedies and the bitter days of the past. But the memories of the Beautiful Days returned, accompanied by bitterness and sadness on a quiet morning from the struggle of blind hatred, random murders, and greedy souls.

Now the memories have come back and I am sitting on the fragments of a structure from an elevated area, looking at the destruction around me. The dwellings of the inhabitants of my country have been destroyed and have become mountains of ruins and burial grounds for their cold bodies, the dust has permeated the sky of my country with a clear blue eyebrow, and the sunlight has been polluted with the color of gloomy gray dust, and the birds have migrated to my country using their absolute freedom to a safe place far from the corruptions of our Black Souls.

The morning in my country was mixed with the cup of coffee of our farmer and the food of the seeds of our pure land that filled the body with life and serenity, while the songs of the sparrows rose to the sky. This morning is ominous and slow, slowly killing us, the cries of pain and oppression crush the human ears with their loudness, the crossed sighs of mothers melt the hearts of those who have hearts and feelings, The Silence of children and their frowning faces fill the eyes with redness.

Since the beginning of the conflict until now, every morning we drink water mixed with tears and eat hard bread. This destruction and open and constant fighting is the product of our ignorance, and if ignorance occurs, the voices of our death cry echo it. A man is crying like a child for his daughter, whose lifeless body he cannot get out of the rubble, a mother is stepping back and forth holding her dead son, only a few years old on one palm, the children crying innocent tears and the elders silently crying.

The smell of salt smells in my country this morning, I think it's coming from the sea. Perhaps the memories have returned because of the smell of salt, whenever I walked by the sea, contemplating the sunrise at dawn, the smell of salt reminded me of my childhood days. What was my country old What was I already seeing in my country I could see the boys playing the harp and blowing the flute, and the girls dancing around under the branches of jasmine and elephant, the elders always had faces with confusion, offering apples to everyone passing by their houses with an innocent smile stemming from self-purity.

I used to see children running among the people in the popular market and the sounds of fun and joy do not leave their days. The old people were harvesting the crops, the women were carrying the sheep, and the songs were singing among themselves, caused by a roll or inspired by Joy and delight. The girls were coming out of their houses in clothes decorated with garlands and gold ornaments reflecting the sunlight in their heads and hands, and the boys were swaying in cloth and silk clothes. It was the established intimacy between us and the creatures: birds and bedding were approaching safely and groups of deer were bowing to the gander confident.

I could see this beauty and love among people in the absence of priests and hypocrites: it was those who planted poisons of my interests among people, it was they who distorted the beauty of my country, they took advantage of the ignorance of young people and filled the disease in their souls to become like them, blinded their sight from the light of the sun and made them see the Bahat of their goals biased only to their ambitions and desires. They underestimated the girls, took the spirit of life out of their hearts, and became afraid of life and going out to practice it. They exploited the innocence of children and taught them their rituals. And so they invested a generation of them in the future... here we are paying the price.

Our whole life was a night of destiny and now we are surviving, not living. Our revolutions are a discharge of anger and a demand for destruction, not change, we do not know our interests, we just want to change and we do not want to change what is in our minds and hearts. Our demands were nothing but audible noise, not noticeable, our thoughts are their thoughts, our goals are their goals, our life was simulated by their words and our sayings are their quotes.

Here is my country bleeding because of our ignorance and weakness, here we go to the temples, mutter to its floor, look at its roof, we call for outside help to save us from ourselves. We envy our dead for the comfort they enjoy, death is our exile. We no longer feel anything, we are neither happy nor miserable, our souls are filled with emptiness, and we have no existence and no meaning. Just like the passing wind. And perhaps the wind has a benefit, it cleanses the air from the dust caused by the destruction and debris of our explosives.

Sects are looking, doctrines are arguing, parties are accusing, why are the rivers bitter in our country, and young people are conflicting between this and that. The truth is obvious, but they are the hypocrites who reassure her whenever she sends us a dim light to race to, they fear the truth more than death. The rivers are bitter in our country because we are the ones who poisoned the spring, they kill themselves for the country but we are the country.

The killer of us leaves behind the victims of loved ones of people, some have lost a son or daughter, some have lost a brother or relative, and some have lost their best friends. The killer goes on with his life indifferently, and the lost one of us involuntarily remembers the last moment of his loss before his departure and wishes for the return of time to go to death with his legs fleeing from the hell of life.

He is unable to live and to die, standing on a thin rope on his right Good Hope, and his left bitter reality. There is no hell except here in my country, hell is our hell both in terms and in fact.

After every Hurt, Revenge prevails in one's mind. And in the end, the one who lost loved ones becomes a murderer! Who is to blame The missing person or the missing person who was killed

I wished to complete the rest of my life in my country... I will die and probably will not be buried under its dust. Farewell, My Country, farewell is not characterized by Joy or sadness, and I cannot give you, my country, the promise of a close encounter or eternal death…

The smell of salt prevails in my country this morning, the sea is calling and life is my calling.

#story #criminal