She was sitting there
with a scarf around her head
scrubbing vessels;
the scenes of soldiers and tanks
rubbled houses and streets
emerged before her eyes;
there was endless despair
in the neighbourhood,
she saw her long skirt
had gathered dirt and dust,
her feet were swollen
her mind was fatigued
so many years of suppression
inside her, outside her,
in the city, everywhere
was some intensity of grief
or hatred burning inside
their hearts, their houses;
and just as she looked out
from her kitchen window
she saw him coming home
rushing foot steps,
he looked so strong
though disheveled
his square shoulders fallen,
as he came closer
he hugged her and wept,
he was her son,
he embraced her and screamed
''the others have gone'',
with one leg he could not travel
he could not keep pace
with the others who ran,
he threw away his crutch
and sat down in tears.
The pain had entered
every door and window
of every other house
as minds were drowned
in their own lamentations,
they had also faced
the repercussions
which were so irreparable,
so indefensible
that existence had lost its voice;
the mothers of Syria
alone knew in their hearts
what their sons and daughters had endured;
and as life moves on to another day,
their routine schedules apprehensions
of fear, of dismay.
O those Mothers of Syria
how silently, strongly they live
nursing their own hearts
which incessantly pain...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem