My apartment once was beautiful; hard woods and fine antiques.
Then civil war came to Aleppo and the fight was in our streets.
A improvised explosive shattered every pane of glass.
Hot metal and the fog of war obliterate my past.
I stand in the ruins of what was once our home.
My family has been scattered; I am frightened and alone.
I search about for some semblance of shattered civility.
A Deutsche gramophone recording has survived along with me.
My television has been shattered; I have no working phone.
Just a working turntable and I listen, all alone,
To the sweet strains of a chamber piece
That was written by Chopin.
I enjoy this scrap of harmony
in a City of the dammed.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
My apartment once was beautiful; hard woods and fine antiques.
Then civil war came to Aleppo and the fight was in our streets.
A improvised explosive shattered every pane of glass.
Hot metal and the fog of war obliterate my past.
I stand in the ruins of what was once our home.
My family has been scattered; I am frightened and alone.
I search about for some semblance of shattered civility.
A Deutsche gramophone recording has survived along with me.
My television has been shattered; I have no working phone.
Just a working turntable and I listen, all alone,
To the sweet strains of a chamber piece
That was written by Chopin.
I enjoy this scrap of harmony
in a City of the dammed.
I based this piece on an AP photo of an older citizen of Aleppo sitting in the ruins of his bedroom, smoking his pipe and listening to a stereo record
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