Abu Ali was around 60
When he joined us in Saudi.
The civil war was ON since
His last visit home in Lebanon.
And, no letter could he send,
Nor any phone calls possible,
To ask them, on what they lived
Since he bade a bleeding bye.
Zainab was 17, and was time
The father to give her hands
In hands strong and worthy,
For his lineage healthy.
Despite attempts many and varied,
He could cross no boarder ever,
As any black veil would blind
Hues of his paternal dreams.
Courage was still a mirage,
Still, could we cook some wishes,
With a pint of boldness blended;
For his pulses weak and face pale.
After days of travel tiring,
Across hostile yellow sands,
He could see but hands tender,
On his street, shining toys lethal.
Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, Jordan,
Israel, Palestine and Lybia,
Many are with a fate similar;
Fatal tools shining ON and ON
To Put Abu Alis to eternal UNrest,
To be buried in blood-bound sands;
Where no grass ever dare to birth,
Lest their blooms too might bleed!
Abu Ali was Real. Believe. Yes, He is out there, there are many such Abu Alis still fumbling in the gloom of civil crisis. God Bless.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Many parts of the world, especially countries of the Middle East are torn by political, communal and ethnic wars! In search of a living people migrate to other parts of the world, leaving behind their homes and their dreams. Many of them are never able to get back to their homes. They languish in alien lands, unable to fulfill their commitments to their dear ones. Abu Ali remains a sad representative of all such men and his pathetic tale is movingly told! !