Here, Darwish addresses freedom and love in a special language, with words and feelings that only a poet who has been through Darwish's situation can formulate. Here, on the slopes of the hills, before the sunset and the mouth of time, near orchards cut off from shade, doing what the unemployed do: nurturing hope. A country on the cusp of dawn, we have become less intelligent because we stare at the hour of victory: There is no night in our night glittering with artillery. Our enemies stay awake, and our enemies light us in the darkness of the cellars. Here, after the slogan of "Ayyub", we did not wait for anyone. Here, "not me." Here, "Adam" remembers his clay. The siege will extend until we teach our enemies examples of our pre-Islamic poetry. The sky is leaden at noon, orange at night. As for the hearts, they remained neutral like the roses of a fence. In a siege, life is between remembering its beginning and forgetting its end. On the edge of death, he says: I have no place left for loss.