Can you see the sullen face
Of a withered old woman
Touched by the light of a faint sunset
With a portray of a man in uniform
On an ancient wall
A war fought in black and white
For Syria
I can...

For the woman is my grandmother
And the warrior is her late husband

Can you see the stalks of wheat
Laden with ripe seeds and future
Swaying in the cool evening breeze
Dispelling the day of labor and its heat
A ring of dabkeh, men and women
Leaning unto each other
Reveling in the smell of harvest
I can... I was there
For this is where I grew up

Do you see the train tracks
On a winding, perilous path
Tunnels vanishing through the monolith
Of mountains clad in green and khaki
Where Sheikh Salih once reigned
Against the colonials and their greed
Where birds clamored for feed  
And resin stained your denim
When you dared to scale
that enormous oak tree
Do you see the distant glint
on the sun-kissed sea?
The beach and its promise,
Of long strolls and night sprees

I do...
for this how my summers looked like

Do you feel the cobblestone
Of a city older than your scripture
Under the soles of your feet
And the bells bellowing
Under the crucifix
The melodious call for prayers
And walls dented with vintage wisdom
"Here be a library, young man...
"And the quest for science..."
"What happened?"
Was my timid retort
As we turned a corner
Voice trailing into the crevices
Of worn volumes and expired zest

O Syria

How they tried to debauch you
How they all claimed an exclusive right
To you and your lethal charm
How they all sought to stifle you
Henchmen and tribes, their means of harm

I sense the pulse of collective exhaustion
Running through your battered veins
A life forever suspended,
In a state of unlived dignity

The street vendors
Their limited supply of hope
And their children
And what their children read
In our history books
And the conundrum and the hypocrisy
Wrought upon their consciousness
By these codified anecdotes
of past glory and wealth.
What a prosperous past could do,
To a child's delicate understanding
Of this unjust life,
Except to broaden an imagination
Of a hard labor on a potholed road, ahead
Of wasted talent and arrested potential, instead

O Syria

How do you feel
As you mourn the loss of your children
How do you plan to deal
With the colossal sadness
With the geriatric madness
Inflicted upon your men of power
The bickering of a household  
and its long-neglected woes
The young feminine face
Of your beloved
Forehead furrowed in a question mark:
Why?
Why this late?

Where is the empathy of your
Frolicking young lovers
Where is the reserve of patience
Your magnanimity and capacity for pain
And where does it end
This infinite search
For the right course

A moon

A decadent light lies at the end
Of a confining tunnel
Against the night and its depravity
A wedding progression
Slow and determined
And the bridal dress
For I've always thought of you
As a woman
And your quivering lips
Whispering the three words of magic
To me
For as long as the beholder,
Cared to see
"I love you too..."
Was my timid riposte
"Free at last"
You mumbled to me
And trust you, I did
Despite the drooping eyes
And the uncertainty of a calendar
Rustling in the wind
A reminder of relentless past
"Free at last"
Was my unwavering promise
To you
For together we can beat
this gloomy weather forecast

Free at last

(This post is dedicated to Syria and all Syrians under the #Blog4Syria campaign)