Poetry

The Silence

By Riyadh Al-Saleh Al-Hussein

In the evening, the men came tired from the pasture;

in the evening, the women came tired from the fields.

The men’s hearts hovered on the verge of failing,

and the women’s eyes on the verge of tears.

In the evening, they came and danced till the morning.

The wound became a song,

and fatigue a flute.

But a certain man remained seated in the corner,

the rifle between his hands like a snake,

and life in his eyes a time of clay.

The man, who just looks silently,

doesn’t seem to be watching television,

or dreaming,

or sleeping.

The wretch…

What is he thinking of?

Poetry

Echoes

By Farag Bayrakdar

For Samira al-Khalil

Her voice descends lightly

Down the steps of the dungeon, and she still lies in pain

In the interrogation room.

And I descend lightly,

That blanket carried by two

Who go astray.

Am I in it, or is she?

What lies in my body revives her weary voice;

What lies in her voice revives my weary body.

What revives fire?

She was not a condition or a description,

But I call her by many names.

The echo has their wings fluttering around me:

Samira....ra….Samira…ra, Samiraaa

A name does not confine its bearer even if desired

But the place…

Confined in the torture rooms of Palestine Division,

So did it confine her.

Or those women or men, together

The plain of Duma, free, with eyelids defeated,

Her voice comes.

I see several doves

As if once upon a time.

I see several clouds.

Her voice comes,

As if, oh time, Syria, a dream and a people, will live.

Oh time, she will live.

Poetry

The Compulsory Reasons

By

Mohammed al-Maghout

A Damascene Lover in the Time of War

By

Gebran Saad

The bullet that made a hole in the

windowsill of

your family’s home

carried my red kiss

to you;

come,

the earth has grown smaller,

and the wagons are transporting the violets far away.

The presser,

who smoothed out the wrinkles

in your shirt,

and in my skirt,

with the embers of his iron

was killed yesterday

by a stray shell

on the sidewalk.

Even the taxi driver,

who used to drive us every Thursday

afternoon

To the Arch of Tenderness

in the “Bab Touma” neighborhood,

has emigrated,

and took with him

the loud songs

in his cassette recorder,

and the blue-eye stickers

on his windshield

to ward off the evil eye.

Come, then,

and give me a date

between two explosions,

or two bullets;

heed not my hijab,

bearded Christian,

just think of my lips

and of the golden halo

above the head of Damascus.

Two Syrian strangers are we

in this world,

without a Christ,

save for kisses...

The Rose and My Friend, Somehow

By

Farag Bayrakdar

On Mother’s Day

By

Farag Bayrakdar

My Sunrise

By

Hanna Saadah

The moon’s long fingers gently tap my door

Before the sun intrudes upon the sky

The yellow morning yawns, the calm clouds snore

I wrap myself with silence and I cry.

When Morning Died

(A Tribute to Sabah, 1927-2014)

By

Hanna Saadah

*Sabah is a Lebanese iconic singer and actress who died on November 2014

Clouds

By

Unsi al-Hajj

The Refugee

By

Hanna Saadah

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