Yes,, I am an inspiring poet because I am the son of wars; my torn pocket carries nothing but weep. How can I not be a poet; I mean a sad poet while our poets are the heirs of the broad pains; I mean the heirs of wide ruin? I will draw a painting, and of course it will be without a smile because I am the son of wars. I will look at a woman and I love her, and of course my love for her will be without flavor because I am a sandy ghost the wars have stolen his face. S o I will try to write a poem; I mean I happy poem but I cannot be happy, not because I chose this but because I am from this land; the land that knew nothing but war and tears. Look at our flowers; they are dead; look at our river; it is dry and look at my mouth, it does not know smiling.