Hi Syria. How do you feel today?
Are you any better? I met a boy yesterday. And he asked me to meet you.
Tell me. How are you healing?
Or are you not? You’ve been in the Intensive Care Unit since the last 6 years.
Do you not feel like getting better for all the wails that you hear everyday from the glasses across?
I heard your walls are being decorated with perilous explosives and the only songs people listen to is, are cries?
Who tore you down like this?
The ones who didn’t gift you your democratic intervention?
Those sharks who sharped their teeths on your children’s bones?
The fascists who merry on boohoos or their even uglier clones?
Your adults are pleading, And your little children who could never see the adulthood,
scream as they hid their faces in rubble.
You heard them scream Syria. Didn’t you?
Did your maimed and mangled gave up already?
Help me articulate your savage parade not here,
Not in all the Lebanons whose crystal castles now sparkle like crushed mirror,
that shines from the sunshine on the sand that is wet with blood clots.
Help me. Tell me more. I’m here to let the world know about these detrimental episodes, That is cloaked with political despotism, Because of the ineptitude civil order, that defies exclusive claim, by burning your body, your pillars, your mosques and your churches.
The rubbles I saw yesterday speak volumes,
about the inevitability of ignorance which refuse to recognise your catastrophic terror.
The world mourns and sometimes pities on you,
Look at your fragmented body, Syria. Even the political and aiding plasters cannot heal you fully,
Your children are rummaging papers instead of sand to write, rice and bread instead of human fleshes to eat,
Your fathers are seen dawdling deathbeds,
shedding tears of moroseness from the bodies that once were their daughters, sons and wives,
And your mothers are howling from the vexation because of Assad’s barbaric swines eating their breasts and thrusting their penises in their vaginas forcefully,
Your people are shouting to escape the filthy human possession trampled by larcenous wiles,
Wake up Syria.
Tell me. Why is your skin so blue and pale?
Is it because the of the tyranny that got you diagnosed with hypovolemia? I heard you shed a lot of blood.
Your little children are fed with methamphetamines before shooting their mothers in the head,
And the river of the dark red platelets are used to fill the spray paint boxes again.
While you’re sleeping with the medications in a rampaged hospital in Russia, a 13 year old child of yours,
Is tearing flesh, burning ciggaretes on his skin,
And writing ‘freedom’ on your broken houses with that red spray paint.
He told me, he wants to breathe the acrylic once again,
And that his gammy skin is sapped and tired from the smell of the blood he uses to paint.
I met him yesterday, Syria.
He told me his mother awaits him at the banks of the Mediterranean sea,
In a small hut made of bricks,
He told her to wait, until the civil war ends,
For he’ll bring her fresh loafs of bread,
his hands washed in bubble detergent and his bag filled with colourful new brushes and paint brushes.
He asked me to tell you to get better and fight back,
And tell me your stories so I could tell this to the world,
And let them know,
So, he can again paint you tint, tones and tinges of different colours,
Can build your walls and roofs allover again,
With bricks made of love and cements made from empathy.
Don’t you want to breathe fresh air?
So speak up Syria. Speak up.