Self Portrait of Syria
The sweet fragrance of spices
Fruits ripened lush from mountain gardens
The bouquets of flowers scenting the air
Vivid memories of yesterday
Now the flowers are black petals of death
The souk reeks of burned flesh
As fires from hell fell from above
Those who tilled have become the earth
Scorched and soiled souls, color ceases to exist
In the dream world of eternal fires
Hope is sucked out of you, the dead whom still walk
The nomads with no eyes, lost inside timeless nightmares
I am an artist, who paints with tears
For those whom stories have been buried in hell fires
They lay, facing the heavens, raped of their smiles
Leaving Infants to cry in the night, lamenting in a sea of blood
A child wanders past me, rented and soulless
I take my brush and prey someone will save that one
I am the invisible artist
As I stab myself, my final portrait to the world
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