ـThis is a fable, a necromancy or a game of coincidences .

ـ Why?

ـ Because the ship is nothing if its winds are not from within.

ـ So am I at the house of meaning; but a false carnelian except that I believed myself.

ـ But, it is still a fable, an astrology, just to feel at home with straying.

Just like stretching one’s artificial hand before a fortuneteller.

Or,

how can you see the dignified treasure in the smile of the terrified soldier?

Or,

how can I furnish the proof with your two butlers’ eloquence while they are torturing the place?

ـ No, I have nothing now, in the midst of ruins, but my strength; the strength of a mine telepathy under the arch of Saturn greeting me.

ـ Tonight is the marriage of the Colonel’s stars with كوكبة ذات النطاق .

ـ I saved, for this night, an olibanum, a red oleander and boxes of weapons...

What about you, what have you saved for your wedding day, you who are burying your face in the atlas of zodiac waiting to remember your name?

ـ …What’s your name?

ـ Nothing, I just want to kiss your open wound for summer, and you?

ـ I want to thank the fog that is darning the holes in a helmet turning over the foot of the mountain.

ـ May be it is your helmet?

ـ It is really a fable..

(A man stops, torn to pieces, at the brink of dawn, at the brink of a trench near Sanoba ⁽¹⁾. He stops to fill his nostrils with the smell of blood. Then, before dropping in utter exhaustion, he is swept by a painful sympathy; a sympathy that is briefed in rescuing man from his sympathy)

ـ What’s that fable?

ـ It’s the rural name they gave for death.

ـ No, it’s ice that is turning over in the bless of fire, and burns its seekers.