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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alisariram 