The dervish was a worker, he heard the words of the foreman, he had a bad feeling, he wrinkled his nose and stayed in his place and didn't move, he was boiling inside.
Dervish was the father of an old Kurdish man, he came from a noble age, the small leaves were arranged in the palm of his hand, like uncle Salih's tzibs.
The work of shoveling and filling the tank with cement consumed his strength, it was not his hand that made his blood burn. Daily work, daily death, old weariness.
On Thursday, they received some money, the price was for his work, but the price for the honor was something they didn't know.
For several years, this head has been swallowing this pain and burning in its heart.
They bought some bread and some breadcrumbs from the shops of the capital, the children's group dinner.
The blue turban in his hand goes up and down, just like his childhood playground.
Many memories were coming and going, the years of nomadism with that sinlessness and good days.