Show,
do not
tell,
they say.
Should I show you how she is—
bent
with sodden shoulders,
eerie knees,
bulging neck?
Bent into a ball,
like a festering kastania
oozing
after it had been stepped on,
its shell pressing hard in.
Look at her!
Shaking
bare feet,
black with muck,
six toes:
two lost to frost,
the others
to a pellet
from a shell.
Look at her!
Shaking
with a breath—
half white,
half red—
unable to contain
the life in.
Look at her!
Lean figure,
bone lean,
sagging leather pockets
for breasts,
and teeth removed
to relieve the pain.
Here she lives,
next to the pile
of filth,
the buoyant filth,
swimming
between homes
when it rains.
Why show you the pain?
Why do you need to see,
to understand?
Circumlocution is just a game.
So let me tell you
the truth
about the war.
It ends with
death!
Category: Syria
Rosae damascena
I am the generation of mediocrity_
born in transition,
after the cold,
before the spring.
Unaccomplished. Unseen.
Skilled in disdain
equipped with a yoke,
we caressed the analog,
touched the digital,
turned blind to the AI.
From grenades
to self-driving drones,
we felt it all
falling
on our homes.
Dont get me wrong_
We lived in awe.
We tasted wealth,
paved the roads for better men.
Never seen an empire rise or fall.
Never been native
to anything
but disdain.
The Dove
It nested there,
as they all do_
because this is what they do:
one layer of dried sticks
laid over the old,
held fast by secretions,
generations of that.
It cooed against grey walls,
bouncing off prayers
for a thousand years.
Now from a sheikh,
once from a priest,
a warlord,
an augur
that read the signs
in the dove’s entrails
searching for hope.
Old
I saw
a wretch
with missing limbs,
and creaking joints,
a tilted head,
a back bent,
and a hoarse
whine.
Come!
Look!
The devil waits!
Strain your eyes,
focus your light.
Aim at the dark
corners of the world—
in the alleys
behind the dumps,
next to the destitutes
that shat themselves
yesterday,
and the day before.
That’s her.
A purple scar,
another in white
on her side.
On her chest,
a stab—
rotten black with circles red,
whirling around
a heart
made of old,
just old,
and stone
erected for
Haddad,
then Jupiter,
then Christ,
and finally a Mosque.
Its people,
forgotten,
ill-gotten,
crawl like moss:
brown,
white,
and yellow,
churning,
oozing,
in endless strife.
Whisper—
else she hopes.
Let her be:
a goliath doomed.
Damascus.
Lucky Thirteen
Thirteen
years, it takes
to become
a man.
…
Thirteen
were the men
whom lastly
dined in.
…
Even in myth,
thirteen
were the knights
of Avalon.
…
In Babylon,
thirteen constellations
they saw.
…
Even the augurs,
the magi, and the holi rest,
thirteen,
they prophesied
as eternal law.
…
Thirteen is now,
when tyranny has fallen,
and all of us,
the dejected,
can go back
home.
The Syrian March
Awaken!
One numb vestige at a time.
Shake the veil off
Off your ancient bosom.
…
Amin,
Allahu akbar,
En deus vult!
Awaken!
…
Shake them off.
Dishevel the seeds,
Buried deep
to waken.
The seeds of
The martyrs, your children.
…
Limbo,
Where they lived
In.
Lives uncounted for.
Seen unseen. Lived unliven.
…
Judder now! Awaken!
And call us home.
The Book Of Life 