While the adults play with our destiny in this country, the young ones play with the deadly fragments of life, they grow up in what looks like a home, they eat crumbs of food, they sleep without dreams, they wake up without the sun. Their only sin is identity, an affiliation that they pay for from generation to generation, in the ever stricken Tripoli, the prince of hope is waiting for sight, who is missing the two corneas, in conditions that lack all the basics, no electricity, no water, no sofa to sit, maybe the world is afraid to look into his eyes In order not to be ashamed of her oppression, and to speak to the mother who is looking for mercy, in the month of mercy, there is no feast that awaits, but rather the blessing of death.
At a time when people are drowning on board the death ferries, she wishes to take her children across the sea, it is true that the hope of survival is 50% and death is 50%, but that is still better than the inevitability of the death of the soul here by 100%.
The mother demands the basics of life with a voice choked by heartbreak, while the rulers do not listen to the voices of the boxes, whether it is electoral or international monetary.
A prince was born without corneas, it is true that he does not see the light of the sun, but he also does not see the darkness of people’s oppression.