رواية وَلاَ فِي الأَحْلاَم

When we get tired of our world and rebel against it, and we hate its air polluted with the blood of our loved ones and its soil mixed with their pure remains, we try to move away from it with our souls a little and swim in our rosy (imaginations) that we weave as we like, so we support the truth in it with the stroke of the pen and cut off the neck of injustice with its extent, so we feel victory and ecstasy, and we see the falsehood dissolving and receding. Our papers and in our dreams after they spread and spread in our real world and almost run over our necks, those dreams that attract us with their splendor and leave us only after feeding us hope, so there is no harm in us swimming a little in it ... rushing to that attractive luster and that turquoise aura that takes us to the world of the absurd and makes us forget our torment Among its imaginary folds we enjoy it a little before we leave and separate from it to where our real world has become what is happening in it ... not even in dreams