War broke out. Music, theater, cinema, and books were all shut down.
Today, in the streets of the industrial city, people’s eyes were on the sky—not to see the moon and stars, but to see missiles and fire.
War broke out. Yesterday was my shift to take care of Dad. Dad is sensitive to light and sound.
I sat awake in the dark. I checked my phone. News of the war poured out from the screen, and soon I was surrounded by missiles and blood.
War broke out. I remember when war broke out in 1980 as well. I was ten then.
Even ten-year-olds understand that in wartime, no one laughs.
They know that the nature of the reed is to catch fire quickly.
Around 3 a.m. yesterday, Dad woke up. He asked me to bring him breakfast.
The house was filled with severed hands, white-colored missiles, shredded dolls, and drunken screams.
I made my way to the kitchen. A thousand missiles clung to my feet.
When Dad went back to sleep, I turned to Saadi. I opened the Gulistan. I drew a verse.
This tale appeared:
A Hindu was learning to throw firebombs (naft: flaming projectiles). A wise man told him: “For someone whose house is made of reeds, this is not a game…”
