The Syrian Daisy

In the valley where Aleppo’s shadow danced,

A Syrian daisy, from roots of tradition wound,

Found herself plucked, by winds of war enhanced,

Into a land where familiar tongues were not found.

~~~

Her veil and accent, more than cloth and sound,

Became symbols, whispered behind hushed hands,

In the streets of Istanbul, she was lost, confound,

In the cadence of a language she half-understands.

~~~

Beyond the shards of her past, in this alien expanse,

Her identity; a scornful joke, a teasing jest,

She, a lone daisy in a field of tulip's stance,

Craving solace in this land of the foreign west.

~~~

She wore her shame like the Damascus steel,

Yearning for a world, where borders were not real.

Where the tongues of man, their scorn repeal,

A dream where identity would not conceal.

~~~

A longing in her heart, silent yet profound,

A world where love, not passports, would resound,

Where her name was just a beautiful sound,

Not an echo of a place, to history bound.

~~~

Yet, the Syrian daisy does not wilt, but strives,

In the heart of adversity, she thrives,

For the scent of home within her thrives,

In a world of borders, the spirit survives.