SYRIAN FLOWERS

As caustic foam, the horizon burns, bloody ocean the desert plain… wrecks of incinerated souls, weaned by bombs.
They are not salamanders …they are little ones ignited.

Wanderers on the dunes, their toothless skulls smile and coagulated rivers are their arteries.
They may no longer suffer the most intolerable of this hellish, redundantly cruel hell.

These angels cremated by the genocidal fury are reborn every day... from wombs which do not cease to give birth to militias. They stand up again... haughty ones... standing next to the rifle, standing, everyone up!!!

Bite the bullet which kills the serpent... to give back dignity to life and life to dignity... to resurrect red hot carbonized children. Fighting almonds will return to their eyes and reaching to their dead brothers... Stand up… strong as a standard the closed fist, Young…Beautiful... Immortal...!!!

This is the poetry of tormented Syria...the one that will win at the end... alive!
Because if it were not so, a dead body the entire mankind would be; poetry will be no more.

The alphabet will be shot, Addition will subtract while Deduction sum …because we will be so less that Ignorance will be multiplied.

And shot… killed by Anger, the rhyme… Oh! It costs so much to perish alive.
This is the poetry of the Syrian revolution… that calls us all to gather in Damascus to bloom in spring.