The Barefoot and the Vagabonds

forsaken corners heavy with the scent of tobacco and alcohol, from the barren depths of nothingness, under the rhythm of anguish and the cries of the needy, where darkness envelops every hint of hope—or hides just behind it—emerges absurdity. From this winding path, these tales were crafted within the chaos of existence, the questioning of philosophies, the distant gleam of hope, and the looming specter of oppression; for there is nothing new under the sun

By the light of a faint lamp, in a room shrouded in darkness, within the ancient alleys of Cairo, reason raised its voice, and the words donned a cloak of black from the very first line. The pen continued its journey across the paper, guided by a mind filled with dark ink, stirred by weary nerves. I remained imprisoned within that bleakness until I completed what the mind had inscribed within the worn pages of an old, dusty notebook, its pages inhabited by creeping insects, some words obscured, others eaten away by time and shadow

Years later, the weary heart inclined once more toward those pages, urging their author to revive the faded words, long locked away in a drawer, hidden in darkness