Syria itself is a poem that tells its grief

By the fingertips of minors

White sackcloth

The word 'Freedom' was written on the ground wall of the school hall.

Independence

On the walls of history

Their names are written in blood.

I am a man.

I am not an animal.

will shout

That citizen-

Ahmed Abdul Waqab.

He is indelible on all television screens with his broken voice.

Like an escaped prisoner

He escaped.

His jugular veins bulged as he broke through the shackles of fear and silence.

His eyes sink into anger.

In his lifetime he never read Baljack or Victor Hugo.

He did not know Lenin or Karl Marx.

That

At the moment

That ordinary citizen has become extraordinary.

Have you seen him?

Head up

The back will be straight

Carrying his child in his arms, he speeds on his way.

by the father

Just to be carried like this

How happy and proud that child must have been

If only it were alive.

My son is handsome.

My son is a hero.

The dictator is jealous of the soldiers.

My son is a hero.

He

my love

The light of my eyes.

my soul

Walking around

She shows him to them, who narrow their eyes in embarrassment.

Her son lies in her arms

Laughing

within the frame of an image.