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:
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.