A Bird from the Battlefront: Reflections from War-Torn Syria

This evening, No one looks like me. I put my heart into the fridge, My eyes into the shoe closet. I left my fingers yonder on the door handle. This evening No one looks like me I set on the edge of my silence Chew what is left of the news Ask the lady announcer to become sexier When numbering today’s victims; Her excitement is a surplus femininity Messing with the awe of death. This evening, No one looks like me. And the knife slitting my neck from behind Feels as soft as the collar of my shirt. One Single Unique Solo I am this evening And no one looks like me Except The twenty-three million Syrians Who write this same poem Even now.

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Hljóðbók: 8 februari 2025