On the seashore, where the waves crash as if whispering hidden secrets, an old man sits alone, gazing at the distant horizon with eyes burdened by wars and memories. His weary features tell the story of a long life lost between exile and waiting, while loneliness whispers in his ear like a heavy companion that never leaves. The sea before him is vast, yet inside he feels suffocated.

A body aching with grief He stretches his trembling hands toward a tattered blanket, placing it over his body aching with grief, trying to shield himself from the cold of estrangement and betrayal. He lets his words flow into ink as if they were a complaint to the world, or a conversation with a self weighed down by tragedy. Each sentence he writes resembles a moan, and every letter is like a stone cast into a bottomless sea.

The scene is painful, an image that makes the conscience weep before the eyes; a man growing old on the pavement facing the sea, while within him lies a desert of disappointments. His heart is haunted by sorrows, and his soul longs for warmth it has missed for so long, as years of loss and heartbreak pile upon his shoulders.

Tel Aviv persists in its obstinacy In the background, Tel Aviv continues its obstinate policies, indifferent to the tears of the elderly and the dreams of children. The siege suffocates even the air, turning the sea—once a window of freedom—into a mirror of greater betrayal. Here, sitting on the shore becomes an act of silent resistance, a painful message sent by a defenseless man to a world that refuses to listen.

That old man sitting by the sea is not merely faded features in a sorrowful painting, but a witness to an unending wound, a living memory that oppression cannot erase. His solitude sums up the story of an entire homeland, yet despite the pain, he continues to speak with ink, believing that words, like the waves, will one day return to break the walls of silence and open a window of hope once again.