Damascus Snow Poem by Mohammad Yousef

By Mohammad A.Yousef


In the gentle hush of early dawn,
Damascus wears a cloak of white,
Snowflakes drift softly,
Whispering secrets to the mountain of Qaseoun,
Where ancient stones stand silent,
Guardians of time, holding stories like breath.

The streets awaken slowly,
Footsteps crunching, a rhythm in the quiet,
Barada River flows beneath the weight of winter's chill,
It carries tales of warmth, of laughter,
Winding through ancient hearts,
Life still pulses under layers of frost.

Trees, bare and skeletal, reach skyward,
Their branches cradled in powdery white,
Dreams of green resting, waiting for the sun,
The path to Zabadani beckons in the glitter,
A road that sings of distant laughter,
Of gatherings under the shade of summer.

Onward to Ma'loula,
Where voices blend like colors in the air,
Echoes of prayers, woven through the stone,
The churches stand proud,
With whispers of light dancing in stained glass,
While mosaics tell the tales of those who knelt.

Mosques stand tall,
Their minarets stretching toward the heavens,
The call to prayer resonates,
A harmony woven into the city's fabric,
Inviting souls to pause, to reflect, to connect,
Layer upon layer of faith mingle with snow.

The highways spread out like threads,
Damascus to Swaida, winding journeys unfurl,
To Homs, where the rhythm of history swells,
To Palmyra, distant dreams of ruins adorned,
Each road a promise, a return,
A narrative shared, a legacy cherished.

For here lies the spirit,
Of the oldest populated city in history,
Where every stone has a story,
Where cultures mingle,
And the pulse of life beats stronger,
Even beneath the blanket of winter's hush.

Damascus snow, a soft embrace,
Coats memories in softness,
Inviting both young and old,
To wander, to remember,
In the heart of a city, alive,
Even as winter falls, it whispers,
"Here, amidst the snow, life continues."
***
In Damascus, snow falls soft,
Blanketing the city like a warm embrace,
Whispering secrets to the ancient stones,
As Qaseoun rises quietly,
Its peaks crowned with white,
A guardian watching over the streets.

The Barada River flows,
A ribbon of silver beneath the frost,
Winding through the heart,
Where laughter used to echo freely,
And the trees sway gently,
Holding stories of the past—
Branches heavy with this fragile glow.

The road to Zabadani calls,
With whispers of fresh pine and distant dreams,
Leading wanderers to that green haven,
While Maloula waits in the hills,
Where language and faith blend,
In echoes of prayer from ancient lips,
Telling tales as old as time itself.

Sednaya's silence blankets the air,
Churches standing proud beneath their snowy coats,
Minarets reaching high, inviting all,
In lyrical harmony, a shared sky,
Every path woven by belief,
Creating closeness in diversity.

And here, the Damascus Swaida road hums,
With the pulse of life and distant futures,
The Damascus-Homs road stretches on,
A journey lined with history's whispers,
Trailing through the sands to Palmyra,
Where echoes of forgotten empires still sigh.

In this city, like no other,
The oldest, where every corner tells a tale,
The air thick with time—
Ancient walls witness our laughter and tears,
A canvas brushed with memories and hopes,
As snow embraces stone and flesh alike,
In Damascus, love lingers in the cold.

So let the snow fall softly,
Let it wrap us in its tender chill,
For in this dance of winter's grace,
We find beauty in our shared days,
Binding our hearts beneath the sky,
In this beloved, ageless Damascus,
Where every flake will melt,
Only to feed the roots of tomorrow.