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Dante Rocío Jun 2020
Sikorki tchnienie w locie musnęło ziemię,
Kresy, wrzosy, suche liście też na wietrze.
Na sykomorze dalekiej Arabii ustała,
skulonego u jej korzeni tego, co sonety
o Aleppo układał, wysłuchała,
i przeto myślami po raz pierwszy
swe osmolone smogiem skrzydełka przetarła:

"Ku czemu się wykluwałam? Ku czemu latałam?
Swym trelem, uwagi skinieniem, czego mam być wyrażeniem?"
Nagle poczuła w każdej małej kości:
"Odpowiedź jest jedna: Miłości"

Że ma ona twarz wszystkiego, niczego, spojrzenia naszego:
Dwóch samców złączonych łabędzia czarnego,
Smutku dla szczęścia innego znoszonego,
Sekretu czule z łzami deszczowi wyznanego
I drzewa z grzyba korzeniem splątanego.

Że ku temu radość innym daje, że tego jest formą,
Wszystkich uczuć, chwil i wrażeń zmową.

"Dziękuję", na tą myśl światu odpowiedziała,
z wdzięczności dla poety z dołu
korę drzewa pocałowała,
i z nową tęsknotą, ku niebu Syrii,
A poem for the children at heart (and not only) of a little *** that learnt on a faraway sycamore through a refuge’s sonnets that Love is all and nothing, with all facades, as revelations or any physical/****** manifestation.
Will translate into English if requested (haven’t yet due to many rhymes and figures of expression)
Dante Rocío Jun 2020
Words like
somehow as beautiful sound
like oil pastels
on beige
Quick call of Pastel Heart
nick armbrister Mar 2020
Post me a letter bomb to ******* up.
Reduce me to pieces for I've had enough.
The biggest bit of me, my thumb.
Look at it just sitting there, on the floor.
I’m like strawberry jam, all over the walls.
Best way to be in this selfish money grabbing world, dead.
Blown up like those stuck in Aleppo.
Blitzed by Putin's bombs in the world's weapon proving ground.
I want no part of it or the world.
Tell them I'm from Aleppo and that I too write.
What will you write about us all, when we’re gone?
Then gather my ****** remains and put them in a hole.
For then I'm home and finally free.
Like all of the others, killed my Putin and the rest.
Worse than the Devil at his worst.
All for power, weapons sales and pride.
Sara L Russell May 2018
Death of Aleppo
Sara L Russell   1st May 2018

When I saw your before-and-after
how I cried
  I died a thousand deaths
       on your bleak soil
a golden city built on hope and pride
  now rubble, bloodied waters
    and turmoil

Despoil is not the word
  to fit the scene
Annihilate seems closer
     to the mark
a land devoured by the war machine
  once here, a fountain
there a local park

In stark contrast to
  all that's left today
bereft of everything you once
  held dear
What went before is lost and blown away
  the aftermath seems now
   forever here

When we saw your before and after
flat epitaphs of never-
   ending pain
condolences in tiny paragraphs
  appeared in hollow hashtags
     once again.
Before and after (the war) photos of Aleppo can be found all over the internet and in YouTube videos. Other countries (including the UK) often send targeted missile strikes when sending food and medical aid would be so much better.
Storygiver Jun 2017
Do green fingers still pull triggers?
Or do they only till the fields of hair?
Ploughing furrows of worry through thinning follicles,
Tangled knots of concern, snarling their path from the true.
Or can they only point accusingly,
Trembling fists beneath pointed judgements?
Hoping the directions sought by those lost,
Do not lead them down the garden path of violence.
This is for a man who takes nurturing into his hands.
A man who believes that the Kingdom of God can be found on earth.
A man who is determined to labour here in this the city of his birth
To cultivate the hope that springs eternal.
Changes part of the faith in his dreams to piece together his reality;
A world without violence.
These hopes are sleep sent for certain.
But his hands are sandstone
So when he rubs the rest from his eyes
He's only shaping his wishes into something less fleeting
For sure, his resting place is a flower bed
cos he wakes plants from their sleeping.

For each shoot that doesn't fire and grow
And each root that doesn't take hold and show
Each colour he knows they're capable of,
feels like a personal blow to all the effort he's put in.

This is the last gardener of Aleppo
His name is Abu *** and he is sick of watching his city fall apart
Ash Shabbah – the city of white soil and pale marble
Now  the white of ash, pale of face and fearful.
Once sanctuary against war,
Now this may as well be the last garden in the world.

He tells us “flowers help the world and there is no greater beauty than flowers”
And so for years, as his city suffers pallid,sickly but not bloodless,
He makes bouquets by roadsides for those who chose to stay
or have nowhere else to go,
or have left but their bodies remain,
And whose only beauty is ribcage grown

He wreathes his arm around the world
Turns our world into a garden of funeral tributes,
appreciated only now
In stark contrast to the destruction that never ceases.

He tends to carry on conversations with the dead
Motionless beneath the surface.
Friends or strangers
Rubble roused and fleeing, now their journey ended
Escaped as best they could, holding flowers in hands
 as he tends his garden still.

It’s a losing battle, lost
How only weeds grow through the cracks that civilization left .
Lichens lasting forever whenever they find the surface to hold onto long enough in this turmoil.
Though he pines for lillies;
 White crocus and daisies grow best in rebel held streets.
No matter.
He makes the dinner he deserves
fragrant with rosebay willow herb
And sage for remembering
But he can’t help but develop a bad taste in his mouth .
He has no taste for retribution
And he has nothing to cleanse the palate,
Of the pungency of despair,
The starvation of the soul.

The desert creeps further into his domain every year
Tendrils of havoc pushed like weeds wicked fingers by fertile bullets
Planted with no thought for the cruel blooms that unknown casualties assume know best
Brush strokes of red lichen, grace pocked walls carelessly evident of lives now past.
For every gravestone reminder of fertile soil
He knows each harvest relies on the last.
Cultivating only goodness in his heart,
the last gardener opposes the law of abandoned places:
That only rot will grow in the spaces left by humanity’s neglect
With agriculture he fights the ravages of the faithless. Torn turning this place into nothingness,
Looking for any hope this last chance leaves in a forest fresh of despair
So he tells us he’s heard from God that
“This tree will live and we will live despite everything.”
And he believes that the timbre of his voice would drown out the violence as he kneels in prayer,
As everything he loves splinters around him.

And he believes that even against the decrepit disrepair
That He can make this place an Eden again,
An oasis of calm during conflict.

Ibrahim lost his father
But maybe his memory can blossom and some beauty can bloom from the killing fields
Of the lily white city that can raise it’s own colours as a flag
And surrender itself to the will of the God of the Gardeners.
This was inspired by a channel 4 documentary of the same name.
You can watch it here:

I know that it can be disingenuous to write a poem where you have no personal experience of the subject matter but my purpose was to be respectful and honour a human who lived. If you feel this has not been the case please feel free to contact me and make me aware - I would rather be called out.
Jon Po Dom Apr 2017
I once sat at the table with my family
Prepared to feast on the small bread and glass of water
Dust lingering in the musty air
From disasters ongoing
Outside our doors

Each meal quieter than the last
As outside the noise grows louder
The earth moves stronger
The atmosphere daunting
Big eyes staring at me

How they haunt me day and night
The sound of that whistling
Like a rampaging train
Signaling its approach towards hell
Making its presence known
For those unsuspecting few
Wondering where the train will wind up
Until its too late

The screams in the chaos
The unappetizing bread
The unquenchable water
Evaporating into nothing
The sudden darkness
This is what blindness must be like

The pain shooting through my spine
The confusion my brain feels
Trying to piece together what just happened
The sudden darkness
I'm all alone in the hell that is my home
Surrounded by carnage

And the white helmets
Bringing me back to what
I think is reality
I don't know
Yet the sudden darkness
Haunts me to this day
It should've consumed me too

JM 4/20/17
I wanted to write about this for some time but the words didn't come together until now. This writing is about the situation in Aleppo as I heard details of people sitting in their homes wondering where the bombs would land. I saw much horror on the news and documentaries showing the devastation and I'd wanted to write about what Syrian people felt during that time. This is not written for political reasons and I'm not interested in which side you are on.
Jon Po Dom Feb 2017
City besieged
So many fallen
Beneath your feet
Joy and Laughter
Replaced by
Horrors unseen

I see the pain
In your eye
Senseless fighting
Bombs falling from the sky
Screaming, Yelling
Children crying
Blood on your streets

The world on its knees
Hoping for peace
Your beauty forsaken
Loved ones taken
A path of destruction
Complete devastation
Will you ever be
Aleppo again?

JM 10/3/16
clinton opah Dec 2016
Save Aleppo oh Lord, send down the rain

relief her soldiers, from this steady pain

save Aleppo oh Lord, let Peace prevail

solace her children, our mothers pray.
desyana rachma Dec 2016
"breathe, darling
in, out, in, out,
it's okay, baby, you're doing great.
it's okay, baby, don't be afraid
i'm right here
i'll always be with you, okay?
i know it's painful, honey, i know
i'm sorry i can't help you
but you have to breathe, okay?
help is on the way
see that light over there?
there's men coming,
they're going to help--"

Mommy stopped soothing her crying baby, as the people lifted the infant up from the rubble. She gulped, instructed to them on how to hold him, where the wounds have pained him, even if she knew that it was no use.

after all, the voice of the dead can't be heard by the living.
a tribute to the tragedy that is happening across the world. the media might not show it, but we know.
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