Whose Story Is It Anyway?

Whose Story Is It Anyway?

2 mins 14K 2 mins 14K

I am listener, a very good listener

During the nights, I listen to the screams

Of the little prisoner,

Haunted by her dreams?

 

The remnants of a ragged doll that reminded

Of her once beautiful universe, well provided

Snatched away instantaneously

By the bombs that were dropped unashamedly.

 

The warm touch of her father

Did it soothe her spirits?

Did his silent tears wash away her fears?

The big key in the pocket of his gown

Of his home in Sinar that was burnt down

As the crowns stood their ground

A part of his soul was never since found.

 

The sever-year old huddled in that corner with a smile

Dreams of going back to the cobbled streets of Douma

Forever reminded of the flowers that stretched a mile

In the beautiful gardens, back home in Mesraba.

His little sister gazed at the ceiling

Picture of that fateful day unfolding

When all her classmates held their hands while hiding

Under that tables to escape from the bombings.

 

I am a good spectator, a very good one indeed

I cried when they cried and I laughed when they laughed

I saw Aaliya, the fully pregnant one, as she sobbed

A caressing tune to the unborn, she sometimes hummed

Whose childhood was overnight robbed

When Aaliya left behind at the border she crossed

The father’s dismembered body

Coated with dust and encrusted blood.

 

Dreams shattered, innocence scarred

Aspirations deprived, unspeakable violence inflicted

Never ending stories of sorrow, strength and survival

Of escapes from the ravages of bombings

Only to walk into poverty and despair

Past and future – a distant dream, a nightmare

Does anyone really care?

Will their souls ever repair?

 

Off the maps, territories wiped

Pages of history with brutality blemished

As Uncle Sam and Aunty Sophia disputed

And the neighbours in silence watched

Millions of deaths and mass exodus reported

To mere statistics everything reduced!

 

Whose story was it anyway?

Of humanity and mankind?

Who is telling the story?

I don’t know.

 

I am just a listener, a spectator

I hear, I listen, I see, I watch

The words and emotions fluttering in the wind

I am just a pile of bricks, a wall, a tent

Housing the immigrants, a shelter, a tomb

Without dignity, where they will never be home.


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