You have shrunk to a handful of wet dust—
wet from tears and rapacious semen.
The heralds look at you as a whore
and your screams have no walls
to enclose their echoes. All have fallen.
Your ovaries are dead.
Your ribs have turned into razors
wiping out your sentiments.
The bullets you have consumed
have rusted inside your womb
and stained the colour of your blood.
Civilization looks as blank as
a dry river
that doesn’t thirst for rains.
Somewhere in your ruins,
hope peeps like a thief
through a broken tooth
of a child, smiling at a broken tank.
Through her eyes—
You look so lean Syria,
but your history is getting fat.
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