Syrian Spring

Syrian Spring long poem

Uploaded by SUMIT NASKAR

Syrian I am,
Not by breed, but as a human
I see spring so colorless and dull, yet dreamy red!
And I dream this dream with all its dread
In day and night
Or even in sleep and fight:
A child enclosing his mother’s frame
Both weak and strong does he remain
Since the hour that darkened air
All was stopped and kept bare.

Under this silence bold
That two years old, a weakened old
Whose young smiles are yet to be born
And whose knowledge is like a sleeping corn
That one who holds strongly the breast
And sucks the bleeding, takes peaceful rest.

He has no means neither mourns
For he doesn’t know-
What is death or from where hatred is born
Or what is pain or struggle of senseless man
Or what is blood and milk of a man?
He calls himself simply- a Syrian man!
Whose food is all- dark, red, grey or dreamy white- set by point of Gun!

That he, little he sucks just blood and no trace of milk-
For fertile land has just turned into a sandy silk
As has got all but dry that mother’s child
Where dead is reddish and milk is wild.
And he calls out many a time, dry all, answerless.
Thinking he may- sleeping mom,
And leaving, he takes a piece of bread with dusty sand,
From her firm but loosened hand,
That is smeared with blood he was born with
And scents of musket for a while smells the peace
And sudden bombing and a shouting cry
Nobody is there to save this minor guy.

He looks at sky, he looks at his own sky:
His spring is shy, but the spring is nigh,
The colour is winged but the red is deep and remains so high.
He cries and catches,
He calls out and patches,
He bleeds and finally his limbs do die.

And there is a light as rays of Sun or more than bright
Here he speaks a trunk-less spirit, “Me, a Syrian toy
My land is hell that kills many a boy!
And this world is dream that does watch and calmly hear!
This spring is fade that sucks all the tears.
But ah! Here is God,
Here is peace-
I have mom my eyes to kiss.”
But then he finds his headless trunk
Says he with all those roaring powerless funk,
“O land! O land! Better be barren
And not let us born to die.
Oh! Syrian god, you bitch
You better cut your head or bring that peace
You are a dog. You decide?
Could you tell the sins for which the new-born does cease?”

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