Ghouls still dwell within

the

sickly

trees

of  a     d i  s  a p   p  e a r   

ing

Ghűtâ[1] -

(I know).

There are crocodiles now

that lie half-

buried

in the muck of

Baradâ[2] -

(I see).

And the four, out of seventeen and counting,

million

Syrian gods

that abide in Damascus

are determined,

it seems,

to turn

Qâsayűn[3]

in

to

woolen

tufts –

to be scattered by the Poisonous Wind.

An angel is dancing in my

cave-like

niche,

these days.

Dancing and singing.

(I hear).

His song is but a sad tale of a

hodge

podge

n

a

t

i

o

n

starving to a spiritual

death

in a land of over

seven

teen

thriving

faiths

(which should not be too surprising,

I think)

Oh,

now I know that I am a Syrian,

for I have built

myself

a rather cozy little prison

to

dwell

there

in.

(And I have made myself

a window

that

over

looks

every

thing,

though I have become blind.

That was the price of my belonging,

I confess.)

Will another Sultan’s sister

ever

get

r  a    p e     d

a

gain?[4]

(I wonder).

For what is there to do these days, but wonder?

and wonder

and wonder…

What manner of

folk-

singing-

barbers-

turned-

historians

will chronicle, for posterity,

our daily

shame?[5]

(…and wonder, and wonder, and wonder…)

Who will compile

new versions

of

very

old

stories

to tell and retell?

And amass

meaning

less

details

on the lives of “famous” men

who accomplished

nothing

but forget

ful

ness

and

death?

And who will it be that

will build

yet an

other

Holy Road to Des

pair,

and

Infamy,

and make the forever guilt-rid

den

pilgrims feel

safe

through

out

their peri

lous

journey?

(Oh, dear heavens don’t let it be me).

I am but a simple human being,

I know,

you know,

eve

ry

bo

dy

knows.

But my blood will

pacify

many a

r

e

s

t

l

e

s

s

soul

when it is finally

s

h

e

d.

(But pray do tell:

how nigh IS

the

Hour?)

Notes

[1]  The forest that surrounds Damascus.
[2]  The river that runs through Damascus.
[3]  The mountain that overlooks Damascus.
[4] In 1757 AD, the Bedouins tribes in the Syrian Desert raided the caravans of the pilgrims while on their way back from Makkah, the victims included the sister of the Ottoman Sultan at the time.
[5]  A reference to Ahmad al-Budayrî the Barber who left us a very interesting chronicle of the daily events taken place in Damascus between the years 1741 and 1762 AD, at a time when most historians were busy assembling uninspiring hagiographies of uninspiring men.