We are the generation of war, and our parents are the generation of defeat, and between them souls grew old, and the concepts of war and love became similar to them.
Things are too big to tell, but I believe that a story alone is capable of creating a small homeland that we carry in our pocket, and that we talk about to our children who were born outside the homeland, and who carried its mark on their faces, tongues, and identities without seeing a stone in it. Only a story is sufficient to create the imaginary homeland in their minds alive. .
This collection deals with stories from the lives of women who lived between two rivers. Between Syria and one of the asylum countries, it is concerned with the small details of these two lives, and the effects that the war had on the lives of these women: disappointment, loss, escape, and love.
It is an attempt to overcome the great scene of war, and the frost of the borders creeping as a river of ice between the shoulders, with small details, in which the voice rises and asks: “Yes, I lived between two rivers, but which of them lived in me?”
رواية بها رعب وخوف وغموض حيث يبحر بنا أسامة المسلم عبر بوابة الجان والشياطين والطلاسم وتحرر القرين فبدايتها مع شخصية (خوف) الذي وجد نفسه في عالم الجان والسحرة بعد قراءته لكتاب مخيف، تدور الاحداث في العالم السفلي .. وكيف تم زواجه بجنية وكيف اصبح مدون وكيف تعلم امورالسحر ؟
Manifestations of Mohammed bin Rashid
Horses are in the character of Mohammed bin Rashid, the alphabet of language, and the dialectic of primary longings. They are the moment of brilliance in the race, in the context, and in the eternal view. They are a horse in the poetry of the poem, they are the cooing on the dewy branches, they are the curls at noon. We approach the youth of horses and the blink of a poem, and the brilliance awes us, and our ancient history, butterflies spread their sheets on the horseback with the chivalry of the nobles, and the youth of the nobles. We approach, while we are in the field, a feeling, a sky, studded with the verses of the Transfiguration and the spirit of the pure, we approach the horses of Muhammad bin Rashid, as if we are reading a poem by the most famous stallions. Poets, we approach a wild flower embraced by longing in a reddish soil. We approach the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we are following the steps of a language full of song. We approach the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid as if we are stepping into space. We approach the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we are drawing a picture of a star dancing in the sky. Heaven, we approach the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we are reciting the story of light in the imagination of the pious. We approach the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we are walking on a carpet of water. We approach the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we are flying with wings whose feathers are made of beautiful braids. We approach the horses of Muhammad. Bin Rashid, as if we were kissing the lip of the air. We were approaching the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we were hugging a rose on the equator. We were approaching the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we were lining up the letters of a poem in the style of Haifa. We were approaching the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we were crossing a river whose birds were in the same pattern. Eternity, we approach the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we were in the presence of Greek philosophies, we approach the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we were in the original, and in the chapter, the secret in the seismic leap controversy, we approach the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid, as if we were in the Houma and Jaljaliyya, approaching the horses of Mohammed Bin Rashid, as if we were in the hermitage of brilliance and oriental gumption. We approached the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid as if we were in the cloud’s sheath and the generous miniatures of abundance. We approached the horses of Mohammed bin Rashid as if we were in the heart of the cloud, rich in dust.
