Syria, Afghanistan and our hope- What can I do?

                       A Syrian Poem by Faraj Bayradkar




 this is my vision

and my exhaustion attests to it.

The river doesn't bend except

for this wager

But I, when a woman falls heavily

at the end of night, I forget my hands

on her voice, and then she departs,

leaving me my chains,

to write something, finally

but I, whenever the late birds struggle

(toward me the horizon shokes)

and an hour's mirage

I gargle it.

Oh, these two...

Give me back a little space

since my cell is a body I claim

and a freedom that claims me...

And give me back a question.

For the answers scattered by the tribes

or that scattered me over them,

no harm in that...

Look: the coming day, overflowing, will gather me

teardrop by teardrop, like an ode in its cradle,

and then illuminate me suddenly,

like a verse at its climax,

and bless me with its antithesis.