By Maram Islambooli
So, what is it Damascus?
What is it?
Fires without oil is migratory
And my shadow is bent and sank in soil as a mosque’s tower.
Look at me, do you not know me
And in my eyes an ancestor’s guide!
An Umayyad sadness that has been asleep for thousand years
And today woke up to meet you…
Damascus snow is as delicate as a kiss
It melts on your cheeks to leave a teardrop
It attests that the gutters that are now extinct
Had found in our souls a dwelling
And that winter is Sham’s warmest season.
Daffodils on sidewalks of Damascus are like a fleeting season
And a child wonders should he buy a bunch?
Or should he wait for Summer’s lasting Jasmine?
Al Sham wept in my arms when you left
And told of a child who was scribbling on walls.
And she told of Fall’s longing shiver
And about streets filled with emptiness.
So, I drew her old sad face
And sent it to you carried on wind
To embody her and my eyes.
Painting: Esam Hamzeh / http://www.esamhamzeh.com