One Year, Eight Months & Five Days Later

People were constantly emailing me articles and telling me about Syrian artists who manifested their talents into a form of expression about what is happening within our homeland, Syria. I read them all. Watched documentaries. Listened to newly released songs. Indulged within the ability of these artists to utilize their skills in such a wonderful expression. But that's when I wondered, "What's wrong with me?" I am Syrian, a proud one, with family (actually 95% of my family) still remaining within the country that is now becoming a place of human extinction, and a very emotional heart. Why was I not in shambled tears on a daily basis, pouring out poem after poem of expression of this? Why was my poetic stream still stuck in the genre of love & relationships instead of Syrian pride and anti-war depiction? At first I spent hours at my desk writing and rewriting verses and lines in hopes of producing a pitch perfect poem about Syria. I failed...miserably and embarrassingly. Instead I focused on merely keeping up to date on the news and posting whatever articles I found intriguing on Facebook and Twitter. But inside it was eating away at me, burning me with confusion and fear, that I still had not produced something with my talent. And I know, as an artist, you cannot force something to be produced if it is within your field of work, EVEN if it hits close to home. You have to wait till that hit reaches the right anatomy of your emotions until something, somehow, is unveiled. And tonight, it happened. At the expense of my sleep (which I truly remind myself I should be grateful for every single peaceful war free zone night) I found my fingers typing. And here it is, one year, eight months and five days later. After the brave Syrians chose to become the tipping point of change for their country and its future.

A bird's eye view of Damascus: The capital of Syria, the oldest inhabited city of the world, and where my roots head back to

One Year, Eight Months & Five Days Later

Feeble knees and wrinkled skin
They dwell upon his body, embedding the age within
But with age comes wisdom and an ever so treasured history
that unfold through those turquoise eyes of innocent mystery
But for one year, eight months and five whole days,
those eyes have held the most obvious of tears
Because a man of his caliber can never in any way,
anticipate the unraveling reality of his greatest fears

Once upon a time he held the highest of hopes

Established the greatest of legends for his people to cope

Watched his historical civilization blossom and grow

Shared it with the next two generations who were proud and show

The precious soil he once held between his fingertips,

that was destined for a greater land,

is now replaced with the dirt of rubble that drips,

with the stain of murder upon Arabian sand

Stroke the walls of a building he once knew

Closing his eyes wishing the realest of the world’s wishes that this weren’t true

But recognizing the slowing beats of his surviving heart,

only reassured him of this war’s horrendous start

He made a prayer for his late peers,

calling them lucky fellows to be long gone and nowhere near

And no one can blame him for those sharp words

Who else could steadily witness what has occurred?

After years of service and dedication to the country you love

Nothing remains but the anticipation of refuge from the One up above

A feeble smile and a wrinkled face

They dwell upon that body I miss in my country and its freedom in place

The grandfather who held the key to every perfect story

Struggles now to keep steady in his country’s days of ending glory

It’s been one year, eight months and five days later

And only the optimists babble that one day it will be greater

But until that day they’ve promised us so deeply,

what will be of those people who have lost their lives?

And what of those people that remain?

What will be of those historical places with only their memory as a mark?

What does the future see now but a history that’s too dark?

Legends will be born, and they will rebuild

but that can’t erase every aspect of Syria that has been killed

Because once upon a time I had a grandfather who held the highest of hopes

His strength gave me the reminder to hold on and to cope

To come back to my roots, and write it down for the world to show

To never forget my history so that every coming generation will truly know

The precious soils of a land that once stood true,

that fell, briefly, in the fight for freedom that they (the future) should never undo

Because the price their ancestors paid to obtain the freedom they now hold

is a price to never be forgotten for its ultimate worth in gold

One year, eight months, and five days later,

I know inside Syria will not be forgotten but it will be greater