From these same destitute streets, those who inhabit today came out the palaces built of money laundering stone, furnished with the finest classic furnishings from the brand of theft of telecommunications companies, fenced with walls of the colors of haram money.
From these same streets, those who sit on the thrones of Hell came out, with “Sene” ties to necks that are only worthy of nooses. It is the streets of Tripoli in Dahr al-Maghar, here the place is lost by the oppression of time, so you do not know whether you live in the land or in the bitter time. It seems that Azrael made his home in this poor city, in the sea where the survivors have died and the dead have survived, and on the land where injustice is eternal, eternal, eternal.
No gas, no food, no electricity, no life, no dignity, not even physical death, only the death of the soul in a curse of cedar and two red and white stripes that lie black about history.
They speak with a sigh, for the sound does not come from their mouth, but from the light of their eyes, which in this world see darkness in the darkness of the day, here the sun never rises.