Soon, they will write, sing, paint and create a more beautiful art, a calmer art, about Syria,
that generation which will not be born in,
When we – who are carrying it as an extinguishment natal in the eyes’ glint, and before we die, as of the oppression has spread throughout our cells as a rust- will transfer it to them, they whom will not know it except as a gipsy who never walked the desert,
They, whom will love it without selfishness, without it meaning anything to them.
They will love it, only because it had meant almost everything to a group of oppressed people who were born by chance among them, of them, so they became to see them and feel them as human pus, that needs to be told, more than them as parents.
They will love it a humanitarian issue more than a national, belonging, sectarian issue
They will see it as clear as who sees a woman who has been collectively raped for decades, but she still there till today, torn apart clothes, wallowing and weeping in one of the dark history’s corner.
They will see it as this since the beginning, in us,
because we were nothing but those torn clothes.

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