BY TOKA SAMER
Melted with love, I walked raving until I stopped at the door of nostalgia. I recalled a white-dressed bride at her wedding day whose glittering eyes showed a great love story. Her charming lips were the colour of a pomegranate. All who had seen her were pissed. A collar of jasmine crowned her descending hair. She was for whom the letters stopped, unable to form words to describe her beauty. Life ended for those who had thought of flattering her charm.
Damascus, please be the mother with a warm lap, as you used to be. Be a woman of charming beauty, a flower of wonderful perfume. Please water my thirst from the stagnant water of Barada river. Let me get back to the past to be a writer of your immortal history. Throw me behind your doors – make me a prisoner in your castle. Let me meet a lover at your alleys, let us walk in the rain. You plant us lovers at your platforms, crowned with tulips and your warm embrace. Let us drink syrup in your lap, then scatter your roses and wed us to your dignified soil.
Tell our story to the generations, pointing to your heart and repeat:”Here lies my children.”