In Syria, tonight.

He says “It’s late.
At this hour,
Books belong on shelves,
Lay your head to rest,
Little one,
Those shoulders must be tired,
No?”

“Yes bhaiya.”

But instead she falls onto knees,
Because her prayers,
Untangle wings,
Wrapped up in world.
Because her Lord knows her fears,
Extend beyond earth,
Like the refugees,
Clinging to dead borders, tonight.
Like minus fifteen degrees,
In a camp,
Not designed to symbolise,
Permanence.
And there is fear,
That the snow will bury dead children,
In Syria, tonight.

How many blankets,
Will it take to hold a country,
Because she still sees mothers,
Tearing clothes,
To stop blood from seeping,
Through wounds,
And there is no shroud,
Left,
To cradle the dead.

Siege starves geography,
The maps we gaze at,
Fall to pieces.
So she gives her heart,
To the bullet holes,
That once symbolised,
A country.

As his words ring,
“Those shoulders must be tired, no?
Little one,
Lay your head to rest,
Bullets belong in rifles,
At this hour.
It’s late,
He said. “

Silence resonates.

As the snow buries,
Another child,
In Syria, tonight.

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