The Lost: a poem about a girl dying of cold

No, not the stars,

but the snow falling.

I heard it whispering

In the depths of my fever.

Softly, softly

it murmured in my waking dreams

Softly softly

It crept upon me

And a sleep like no sleep called my name,


In this poem, I imagine a Syrian girl in her late teens dying, being the last of her family, after she and her family had witnessed the destruction of their village by the Syrian government war planes, which forced them to flee. They end in a refugee camp which the Syrians have named the death camps because the refugees are exposed in most of them  inside the country and outside to the terrible heat in summer and the terrible cold in winter with nothing to protect them but the helpless tents.

Who is at the door, 

A stranger at the door?

Come in, come in,

Who is not a stranger in this world,

In this life?

Sit on the floor, lady

For we do not have chairs, lady,

From earth to earth.

On the bare earth we sleep,

Our food is mixed with mud

And dusty mouths devour it.

We use mud…

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About alisariram

I am an artist, a writer and a researcher. I know Arabic and English . I am interested in music and art of every description. I like to describe myself as the embodiment of a harmonious marriage between two cultures which I value and treasure.
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