Winter's Solstice In Aleppo

That twinkling on the horizon ain’t no star just another Russian fighter closing to lay its clutch of cluster bombs or a missile cruising in. Winter’s solstice approaches, the rocket's flare fizzles and only darkness remains. Come morning, no flag will fly in this city of ruins. When you bomb rubble, you get only smaller rubble, a few more dead bodies and the unlucky ones who ain’t dead. More than five years caught between forces, as leaders and faiths strike hollow truces then bomb their own, leaving only helpless rage and anger. My only Christmas wish is to be anywhere other than Aleppo.