我的儿子把他的颜料盒在我面前,问s me to draw a bird for him. Into the color gray I dip the brush and draw a square with locks and bars. Astonishment fills his eyes: '? But this is a prison, Father, Don't you know, how to draw a bird?' And I tell him: 'Son, forgive me. I've forgotten the shapes of birds.' My son puts the drawing book in front of me and asks me to draw a wheatstalk. I hold the pen and draw a gun. My son mocks my ignorance, demanding, 'Don't you know, Father, the difference between a wheatstalk and a gun?' I tell him, 'Son, once I used to know the shapes of wheatstalks the shape of the loaf the shape of the rose But in this hardened time the trees of the forest have joined the militia men and the rose wears dull fatigues In this time of armed wheatstalks armed birds armed culture and armed religion you can't buy a loaf without finding a gun inside you can't pluck a rose in the field without its raising its thorns in your face you can't buy a book that doesn't explode between your fingers.' My son sits at the edge of my bed and asks me to recite a poem, A tear falls from my eyes onto the pillow. My son licks it up, astonished, saying: 'But this is a tear, father, not a poem!' And I tell him: 'When you grow up, my son, and read the diwan of Arabic poetry you'll discover that the word and the tear are twins and the Arabic poem is no more than a tear wept by writing fingers.' My son lays down his pens, his crayon box in front of me and asks me to draw a homeland for him. The brush trembles in my hands and I sink, weeping.