09-12-2016, 01:54 AM
Green is for the fields that line
The rich banks of Mother Euphrates.
White is for the sand that kisses
Badiyat al-Sham and the White Middle Sea.
Black is for the smoke that rises
From each bomb’s billowy blossom.
Red is for the slickness that covers
a boy’s face and drenches his graphic t-shirt.
But grey is his new favorite color.
He sees grey in the windowless
Planes buzzing over his flat
Like angry wasps.
He sees grey in the ten-foot mounds
Of concrete and rebar
That turned noisy homes into
Silent graves.
He sees grey in the dust and ash
Blanketing the streets
Like sorrowful snow.
He saw grey in his father’s hair,
His mother’s hair, his brother’s hair—
Once black as oil, now dull
And lifeless as their body bags.
Now the grey clings to his skin,
Punctuated with shades of brown.
He reaches up to wipe some off
His face and his hand
comes back red and grey.
He looks but doesn’t cry.
His tears were snatched
Away with the green
Fields and white
Sands of Aleppo.
The camera filming him will absorb
Variants of red, green, and blue, but
It will broadcast a rainbow worldwide:
Black for the smoke that rises
From each bomb’s billowy blossom.
Red for the slickness that covers
Syrian faces and drenches graphic t-shirts.
Grey for the thin, dusty hope
That settles on the ground to the tune of gunfire.
The rich banks of Mother Euphrates.
White is for the sand that kisses
Badiyat al-Sham and the White Middle Sea.
Black is for the smoke that rises
From each bomb’s billowy blossom.
Red is for the slickness that covers
a boy’s face and drenches his graphic t-shirt.
But grey is his new favorite color.
He sees grey in the windowless
Planes buzzing over his flat
Like angry wasps.
He sees grey in the ten-foot mounds
Of concrete and rebar
That turned noisy homes into
Silent graves.
He sees grey in the dust and ash
Blanketing the streets
Like sorrowful snow.
He saw grey in his father’s hair,
His mother’s hair, his brother’s hair—
Once black as oil, now dull
And lifeless as their body bags.
Now the grey clings to his skin,
Punctuated with shades of brown.
He reaches up to wipe some off
His face and his hand
comes back red and grey.
He looks but doesn’t cry.
His tears were snatched
Away with the green
Fields and white
Sands of Aleppo.
The camera filming him will absorb
Variants of red, green, and blue, but
It will broadcast a rainbow worldwide:
Black for the smoke that rises
From each bomb’s billowy blossom.
Red for the slickness that covers
Syrian faces and drenches graphic t-shirts.
Grey for the thin, dusty hope
That settles on the ground to the tune of gunfire.