Fariha’s Reviews > A River Dies of Thirst: Journals > Status Update

The spectre of the dead man appeared to them from a cloudless sky and when they opened fire on him they did not see a single drop of blood, and they were afraid.

'What has the woman done wrong?' They said: 'She will give birth to a memory.' 'What has the tree done wrong? They said: 'A green bird will appear from it.' And they shouted: 'Fear, not justice, is the basis of power.'

Let us then turn our attention to comforting the frightened man.' When they went down the road of sympathising with the killer, some foreign tourists passing by asked them: 'What has the child done wrong?' They answered: 'He will grow up and frighten the frightened man's son.

'Justice emanates from the generosity of power. The victim should apologise for the trauma he has caused the killer.'

The killer looks at the spectre of the dead man, not into his eyes, without regret. He says to those around him: 'Don't blame me. I'm afraid. I killed because I'm afraid, and I'll kill again because I'm afraid.' Some of those present, accustomed to favouring psychological analysis over the laws of justice, say: 'He is defending himself.'

If there is any point to jealousy - which is supposed to be the same colour as the sunflower - then it is that we view our surroundings with the heroic spirit of one defeated, and learn to focus on correcting our mistakes in honourable contests.

I am seduced by a metaphor: yellow is the colour of the hoarse voice that only the sixth sense can hear. A voice whose tone is neutral, the voice of the sunflower, which does not change its religion and always worships the sun.

I envy her this focus that transports her far away from our fragile life. I envy her the way she embroiders time with a needle and yellow thread broken off from the sun, which hasn't been occupied. I gaze at the yellow flowers and feel they are lighting me up and dissolving my darkness, and I grow less heavy, finer, and we end up reflecting one another's translucence.

Yellow flowers make the room lighter. They are looking at me, rather than me looking at them. They are the first messengers of spring. A woman, who is not distracted by war from studying the disfigured nature left to us, gave them to me.

The tree is a standing prayer, directing its devotions upwards. When it bends a little in the storm, it bends majestically, like a nun, looking upwards all the time. In the past the poet said: 'If only the young were stones.' He should have said: 'If only the young were trees!'