Their mothers’ wombs were light;

A world, on the run, a world.

Even though they don’t rest,

This world is in darkness; not that.
The first day of their visit

The first sound they heard was

That of the bird, 

Raining the eggs of bombs

From the ozone of their world.

They resumed to the grave.

Ask the children of Aleppo!

Ask the girls in Syria

How they became game;

How they became

What dust that was left of their names.

How did they celebrate

The Girls’ International Day?

The young and the old are

Planted everyday in the grave

To grow into an

Underground Metro.

My heart’s injured, for I see

that the future is fading, blurry,

Hopeless, for the future dies -everyday.

Their wall is breaking, yet sweating,

Who will give them handkerchiefs

After their bandages are soak in red?
©Ibraheem {Broken Pen}

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