To Ashraf Fayad, the Palestinian poet by Mohamed Sahafi

The tears
of the sad violin
wash the hearts
of the damned
who are
exhausted
by the infernal machines
of the despotism.

They fall
drop by drop
as an acid
on the marrow
of those plaster statues
which fear
to see
their nudity
to see
what they are
between
the turning mirrors
of the Art.

Lorca is alive
Because
No one
Can kill
The flowers of the eternity.