((The war ended and I returned to my childhood; to the village, the fishermen, and the poetry books that I inherited from the culture of my elementary school teacher. On the body of the yellow leaf, autumn yawns, and a naked one covers herself with the coat of her desire. A hungry and lustful person asks me: When will the apple be and I am in one desire? I reply: When your Adam and the love of the tear are mixed with the nakedness of amazement, so that you can take it wherever you want, for it was her mistake that she desired the rose of the bed, and you neglected her for your vast war. Thus, without shame from the obsession of the pillow, the hungry asks for bread, so that poverty enters the cellar of the body. I remember the dance of the rooster over the wall of sin. Why did we throw stones at our dreams? Why do the helmets of soldiers become a memory of childhood, and now become a notebook for recording the details of the novel? Why do soldiers love the oranges of old words and leave behind them the bodies of our women lost in the ritual of waiting for the pegs of memories?! The answer is in the specter of the childish question In the pornography of this novel, which is nothing but feelings that invade my isolation in this distant exile, and war: when a man's gun is the most beautiful emotion in the night of their femininity.