Of children of Syria
one boy, two with a dying cousin
in a smoke clouded ruins of Homs
staggers without strength
as if tossed by storms of drunkenness
one boy, two with a dying cousin
has seen what we most shelter
our children from seeing; images of barnarity!
voices of wounded ring in his ear
death and calamity is his daily bread
his almond eyes grip this moment and holds it
one boy, two with a dying cousin
with light steps, goes about burrowed streets
only if he could see the light
that has been swept by volley of mortar,
one boy, two with a dying cousin
in a broad daylight that looked like night
gathers pieces of his shattered home
one by one, until the moon vainly smiles
one boy, two with a dying cousin
driven mad by a wild convoluted world
dawn breaks, portent cries of missiles sow
he hurries to his dying cousin, holds him!
above, fighter jets purr like hedonistic curses
tears blur out the debut of new war weaponry
falling over his small frame, causing walls to sag
one boy, two with a dying cousin
clings on to the specks of dust
he hears the wrath of beseigers proliferate
hell is unleashed, everything grows dim
the ground erupt, flames ignite; an ambush rings on
terrors rise to occlude all arteries, so that,
numbness forms a rich curtain of lugubriousness
a cannonade of crazy proportion rain...
one boy, two with a dying cousin
sways in a frightful revelry of a war
in his corner, no one dares extend a hand
or cast bread and butter to his direction
mother dead, father dead; cousin dying,
uncle, swallowed up by a free Syrian army
one boy, two with a dying cousin
grew from the womb just like your son
as bombs blaster, his hands are clasped
and asks you to make your heart right
not by opening your homes, or living rooms
but buy opening your borders, see him through
one boy, two with a dying cousin
asks you to raise your voice
know his way of living everyday
would you wish it upon your blood?
if no, then, tell it as it is to the world
one boy, two with a dying cousin
stays down in silent uncertainty
pool of blood congeal between his toes
he counts to the afternoon waning sun
in silent uncertainty, the hours of his cousin fold
one boy, two with a dead cousin
whose dreams are fraught with war horror
observes the winds start afresh, over and over
and wonders if there be a chance
for him to start fresh somewhere silent
one boy, two with a dead cousin
to this day is still stuck amid crossfire
his lap cradles an adipocerous body
of his deceased cousin; bow down...
a moment of silence to all children of Syria
both living, and deceased...
a moment of silence!