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Dawnstar Apr 26
Down in the valley of the fleeting stream,
Parched Syrian tongues are crying aloud,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where war took away my sweetheart.

She was bright, now she is blue,
Like the cataracts dividing the stream,
And the tearducts dividing my eyes,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where war took away my sweetheart,

Torn in our tumult
From the bleak parade,
Starve we all like her delicate face,
Now forever blemished.

Therefore let us dine on hardtack!
Suffer for the things of the marble world;
Fast along the toiling road,
To the land of reward, we go.

I compared her to a flower:
The fairest fragrance ever conceived;
To think her smile is a nest for ants,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where death took away my sweetheart.

Alone I sit, I weep,
        My face is clenched by nightingales;
A country stained by grief,
        At night, I hear their biting wails
From ill-wrought molten blades,
        Alike to man and woman;
How can I reason fate away
        By crying o'er her *****?

Change these feelings about me!
I am eager to see her again,
But I won't obey the winds
Above, above the sacred river—
As far as the fragrance is concerned.

No more mourning in silence!
Turn your plowshares into swords,
Let the weak say, "I am strong";
We may yet have the final word,
Before the vanguard departs this world.
Stephen Starr Apr 21
A blue boat
in the Mediterranean,
seven hundred balance,
broken, silent,
an unchosen arc,
rocking hearts dulled
by a slender chance
at survival.

Bitter dread grips
those not in boats,
greeted by the unexpected,
fumbling the knot of wrongdoing.
Surprised faces
bob in peaks and troughs.

between the
abandonment of hope
and the next breath
lies arrival.
A remembrance of
a buoyancy,
a slender space
of kindness,
holds all refugee stories
breathing freely
wave after wave.
Written in solidarity with those left homeless by war and threat of death.
Jules AA Apr 4
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" - Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus

In 2015 alone, over 500,000 people crossed the channels from Turkey. So in response, they brought back out the “Dublin Regulation,” but it was slightly different this time, this time they made a point of saying,
“******* for living in the place that we’ve bombed to kingdom come, the place that we’ve
destabilized to the point of catastrophe.”
I met a man who casually talked about things that everyone you know would appalled by, he was there. Talked about something that there was a whole failed movement about, because helping those in need goes as far as buying some posters and buttons.
Upon hearing the words,
“When I was 8, I was taken as a child soldier,”
Casually in conversation you begin realize how little the west gives a ****. These people are often stuck in crowded camps for over a year, because the EU would rather keep them in the land of PIGS(as they call it). Close to where they can get sent back with ease. Where they can keep the chaos of the world out of mind. They’re telling these people, innocents seeking safety,
“We don’t want you. Not in our clean cities, not in our homogeneous society.”
Just like the U.S., just like us. Drawing up falsified statistics and promoting otherization to feel at peace in our complacency. And seeing a child dying in the street, we look away. Not because we feel for the child, but to shield ourselves from the truth that this child is not the first or the last who died today. The melting *** is cooled now, it’s cracked like the Liberty Bell, its old contents poured out and filled with Miracle Whip and stale, cloudy water from plastic bottles left in the back of a Ford Taurus.
slightly inspired by "Left" by Nikky Finney
They bid their parents the last farewell last week,
“They died from God,” they were told.
Not believing this,
they said, “good ones don’t die.”
That’s what they learnt in their 4 years of life.

A blond girl and a black-haired boy running,
not knowing where to go.
Their shirts aren’t being ironed for days,
and the pants worn out.
The long unwashed hairs are still flying though,
from the breeze of the windy winter.

They are running,
sometimes smiling,
sometimes crying,
sometimes flying,
like the scared birds above them.
Their screams heard.
They reach the tombs of their parents,
buried in the cemetery near the borders,
which is for the poor only.

Wither colorful roses planted,
by unknown,
on the graves.
No names written on the tombstones,
no death dates,
no verses from the Holy Quran,
no visitors,
and no prayers.

They raise their arms,
and try to pray.
They cannot pray,
because they aren’t taught to.
They just open their cold shattering hands,
look at the cloudy skies,
shed some innocent tears,
and move their shivering lips.

They spend hours there,
because they miss their parents,
which makes a gum-chewing ******,
with a metal helmet,
point his gun at them,
because they are “national threat.”

They run,
and run.
They try to curse the ******,
but they don’t know bad words.
They curse him in their imaginations,
while running.

The girl’s life was the first be taken,
and then her brother.
They vanished,
not the two kids,
but two breezes,
blowing to heaven,
like two angels,
With long wings.
They now know their parents vanished,
by the same ******,
not by God.
because good ones do not die.

Mohammed Arafat
For the kids of Palestine, Syria and Yemen
Liam Peare Jan 24
Beautiful paradise draping in wanton vain
Men and women visage in pain
Storming the Homeland with sorrow's wind and rain
Laundering the beauty of morning's eyne.

The carcass of Country men blown by the wind- identity.
The Clamour of torment soul of Fellow man to despair- scythed the sanity.
Tears  in woe as thy'd watch the Homeland in ash
Threaded in enduring the shrieking of Homeland.
I start having nightmares before the beginning of any war.
During my sleep, I remember my sisters and brothers,
who played, smiled, loved, and were loved before.
I remembered my mother and the rest of the mothers.

During my sleep, I thought of my school,
the kindergarten and the friends of my niece.
I thought of my swing, my toys and the big pool.
I realized I would miss living free in peace!

The war waged, and I saw what no one has seen.
In front of me, they got ready for the battle.
They brought tanks, guns and an F16.
With hate, they were rushing just like a cattle.

Guns made in East and West pointed at me.
I saw no birds, but warplanes flying over the skies,
bombing, not caring about a he or a she.
I saw blood, felt sorrow and heard cries.

They destroyed my family home,
burnt my books and broke my pen.
They murdered my brother’s spouse,
and threatened to **** me again and again.

Black smokes surrounded me from everywhere.
Big explosions hitting here and there sounded.
Toys broken on the ground, balloons flying in air.
Despair spread, fear planted, hatred rounded.

Despite the war, I raised my hands and prayed,
that I get back to my home where I played,
that peace come and never be delayed,
and that my freedom will never ever fade!

Mohammed Arafat

This poem is the experience of every child found her/himself in a war waged by merciless decision makers all round the world.
Mohammed Arafat Dec 2018
I came from a beautiful place,
Full of trees of olives and oranges,
A running river and golden beach.
From north to south and east to west.
We had our own land,
a spacious house.
animals for food and milk.
I was a poet,
my sister an engineer,
my brother a doctor.
My parents owned a business,
And my mom was pregnant;
she wanted twins,
a boy and a girl.
I loved my country.
We lived in peace.
Until the hatred spread:
of my family,
my religion,
the way we talked.
We were unwanted.
They knocked down the door of my family’s home
and “disappeared” my father and brother.
My mother aborted the twins for whom she hoped.
I tried to protect my sister from ****,
but I couldn’t.
How cowardly I was!
We decided to leave, to flee.
Like thousands, we walked toward a mirage,
a dream of a better life.
My mother could barely walk,
my sister lost in her personal pain.
Only cacti, heat and sun for miles:
We crossed rivers and deserts.
mountains, hills and valleys.
Smugglers awaited us at the border,
demanding thousands to pass to a safe place.
“If you don’t pay, you die!”
What lay ahead we did not know.
But I knew no place could be better
than where I was born.

Mohammed Arafat
This poems talks about the refugees forced to leave their homelands.
hannah Nov 2018
we could feel the pressure before the
bombs hit,
and the way the sky shifted, a shadow of coal
hurdling its urging body towards an impending color of red;
from not the dim decay of a setting sun
but the weeping of our bodies
in the same moment the buildings would fall.

we could feel the cradle in earth
where we lay embalmed in dissected cement,
in open cracks teeming desperate-child arms.
it was silent, lasting only a moment
before our ears would adjust,
before a wave of awareness hit us,
worse than a bomb, worse than the remains of our homes,
resting against our toes,
because we knew those screams,
we became familiar with them.

and it was dusk, but above it was covered in light,
as our bodies were put to bed,
without our mothers, without our fathers;
but a blanket of ash to cover us,
and we'd choke on the particles
as it swarmed it's nails into our throats,
and we wouldn't breathe - we couldn't even conjure up the thought.

cries in our language were not known beyond these borders
but they were heard between a choir of people,
a bundle of bodies in a father's arms, as he kissed his sons goodbye

min faDlik…

…min faDlik
i still remember syria
Sayali Apr 2018
To **** a mockingbird,
Is a sin,
Like holding a full bloomed rose by its neck and snapping it,
(ii) To **** a mockingbird,
Is a sin,
They have eyes that reflect like diamonds,
Churned with the rarest shade of indigo and the tiniest bit of white,
They have warm hands and dainty wrists,
Their bones are fragile,
Their knees bruise easily,
Hair sways like a golden storm,
(iii)The mockingbird,
Hums tunes they hear,
They don't fabricate any of their own,
They're an open book,
A page everyone knows will not hurt with its words, (iv) But we wait,
Wait for the worst to drown everything innocent we have,
Watch as the mockingbird is painfully murdered,
As we pick up their weight in tiny coffins on our chests,
And then quote again,
" it is a sin to **** a mockingbird "
Matthew Roe Aug 2018
I saw a gigantic tree.
Uprooted and on its side.
The great roots forming a mane for the snarling ringed face on the stump.
But the fallen beast is taken, it’s husk a Home.
A vibrancy of weevils, ladybugs, frog hoppers, Cockchaffers that’s skittering, scattered like a smashed ant farm.

Around its base were prehistoric ferns,
Curled and scaled like sand lizards’ tales.
Reminiscing the demise of the tyrannosaur.
When dust clouds darkened the sun which warmed their claws.
The skittering skinks, slow worms and other small lizards, who need far less to survive, then feasted upon the monsters’ flesh and found a home in its bone structured palace.

As whale sinks,
Distorted into a globster of its former self,
It hits the sea bed hard in oil-Black darkness.
The hagfish burrow, starved for millennia.
Brutally tearing at the befallen banquet.
Mouths used to scraps choking on steak.
Getting their guts knitted as they squirm over each other to grasp some sashimi.
Dripping saliva as if we’re sweat in the ruckus.

Yeti crab pinch, as do isopods
But get only mucus insulting their jaws.
And they thought they helped to cut up the portions.

Soon all that is left is a skeleton.
Hanging in a museum for future generations to see.

Once again, dust gathers, from bombed out sand.
Erupting in the air as giants hit the ground.
We may soon again see darkness fall.
As the rayiys is skinned.

But no tears are shed.
We all cheer none the less.
About the current (2010s) conflict in Syria, referring to how all hint brutes will fall (tree, T-Rex, Whale) and how those who were below them (Beetle, Lizard, Hagfish) will thrive now that they are gone.

'Globster'=a carcass washed up on a beach that can't be identified, often mentioned in cryptozoology.
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