by Amineh Abou Kerech
Syrian
doves croon above my head
their call
cries in my eyes.
I’m trying
to design a country
that will
go with my poetry
and not get
in the way when I’m thinking,
where
soldiers don’t walk over my face.
I’m trying
to design a country
which will
be worthy of me if I’m ever a poet
and make
allowances if I burst into tears.
I’m trying
to design a City
of Love,
Peace, Concord and Virtue,
free of
mess, war, wreckage and misery.
*
Oh Syria,
my love
I hear your
moaning
in the
cries of the doves.
I hear your
screaming cry.
I left your
land and merciful soil
And your
fragrance of jasmine
My wing is
broken like your wing.
*
I am from
Syria
From a land
where people pick up a discarded piece of bread
So that it
does not get trampled on
From a
place where a mother teaches her son not to step on an ant at the end of the
day.
From a
place where a teenager hides his cigarette from his old brother out of respect.
From a
place where old ladies would water jasmine trees at dawn.
From the
neighbours’ coffee in the morning
From: after
you, aunt; as you wish, uncle; with pleasure, sister…
From a
place which endured, which waited, which is still waiting for relief.
*
Syria.
I will not
write poetry for anyone else.
*
Can anyone
teach me
how to make
a homeland?
Heartfelt
thanks if you can,
heartiest
thanks,
from the
house-sparrows,
the
apple-trees of Syria,
and yours
very sincerely.
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