Abu Ali was around 60
When he joined us in Saudi.
The civil war was ON since
His last visit home in Lebnon.
And, no letter could he send,
Nor any phone calls possible,
To ask them, on what they lived
Since he bade a bleeding bye.
Zainab was 17, and was time
The father to give her hands
In hands strong and worthy,
For his lineage enduring.
Despite attempts many and varied,
He could cross no boarder ever,
As any black veil would blind
Hues of his paternal dreams.
Courage was still a mirage,
Still, could we cook some wishes,
With a pint of boldness blended;
For his pulses weak and face pale.
After days of travel tiring,
Across hostile yellow sands,
He could see but hands tender,
On his street shining toys lethal.
Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, Jordan,
Israel, Palestine and Lybia,
Many are with a fate similar;
Fatal tools shining ON and ON
To Put Abu Alis to eternal UNrest,
To be buried in blood-bound sands;
Where no grass ever dare to birth,
Lest their blooms too might bleed!