She suckled, on her, Motherland’s blood
And played, in the dust, of her, shattered hearth
From the, farm of fear, burst, faith’s brave bud
To satirize, war, with a, defiant mirth!
Salwa is, the soul of, Syrian dream
Who lost, her cradle, and lullabies
When she, hears mortars, she no, more screams
Just chuckles, at fear’s, feeble lies!
Men wage, their wars, what else, do they know
And martyr, posterities, for their, pride
With the seed, of hate, in blood, they sow
Is this, their Prophet, prophesied!
Won’t Syria heal, for a, myriad years
Till her heirs, linger, in that, faith’s shadow
Which dares, not cross, its fear’s, frontiers
Where Angels, Laugh Off, Satan’s Salvo!
© 2020 Vikas Chandra
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