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Ode to Syria

Wednesday, November 23, 2016 20:16
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(Before It's News)

Syria was the homeland of my great-grandfather, so it pains me to see so much of it lying in ruin.  When I first heard about the “Syrian Civil War,” as it was then presented, I peeked at the photos online of little girls with their heads blown off, fathers carrying their dead children out of a bombed-out building, and piles of dead bodies strewn across the blighted cityscape.  I was shocked, moved, troubled.  

Later, I learned that some of it may have been caused by the secret machinations of my own government, for reasons that are too complex to explain here, and I felt a pinching fury in my gut.  By no invitation of its own, Syria seemed to be hosting the theatrical spectacle of the modern malaise, displayed in all its grisliness and ghastliness. So I wrote an “Ode to Syria”:

O, great land of Syria 

Without you, the world would be so much drearia!

 

I speak to you as I would speak to my ancestral land 

For you are like the fingers that lead back to my hand

 

My great-grandfather could never have dreamed 

that many of his people have shouted and screamed

 

As some were slaughtered and some were shot 

and their bodies were left to rot

 

Could a man so handsome as Asad

Be a devil with a carefully erected facade?

 

Or had he been unfairly maligned

in an era which judges even the kindest leaders as unkind?

 

Oh, how it pains me to see Syria spill its blood 

because it is to the world what water is to mud

 

In days gone by, caravans passed through 

And many have said, “Syria, we have conquered you”

 

But Syria remained Syria 

O, Syria — without you the world would be so much drearia

 

And now people pour out of Syria like blood out of a wound

It’s as if one of the greatest sand dunes has been de-duned

 

Perhaps, alas, we need not remove Asad

But rather the terrible truth that “hero-nations” hide under their own facade.

 

 

 

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