Poetry: Syria

A healthy and homely land for all race
Now infected with deadly diseases
Of war,killings,rhythm of guns and bombs
Dropping in the ears of mother and child
Unpleasant tones that presses play on heart beat.

A healthy and homely land of honey
Consumed by tears,sadness and bitterness
Painted all over with innocent blood
Crying with loud voice for vengeance to come
Syria, the top story of the media

A healthy,homely land of the living,
Covered with refugees and dead bodies.
Humans finding shelter under the sun.
Some shooting guns,others trying to run.
Syria, a friend and brother to Libya

A healthy and homely land of much peace.
Kissing war,breaking peace into pieces.
Forcing kids into murder as rebels
Rebelling against their own family
Syria, a land not peaceful like india.



These fresh streaming words are a cry for help.
The beloved beautiful Syria lies waste.
Let me remind you of what is at stake,
Of names lost along with ancestral homes,
How the bomb of hate was dropped so often
Disintegrating souls into pieces.
Embracing fate, kissing the art of war
Fertile plains have their wombs torn out of them,
Flags of tyranny fly in youthful hearts.

From the mountain tops surrounded by green,
Where the tranquillity of fountains build,
Peacefully seated, the centre of Homs.
Lady Zenobia unsettling the waves,
Mocking the city with revolting stares.
The mosaics of Apamea are lost.
Huge pearl sitting in a pile of debris.
Men swallow their pride and run for their lives.
Voices from a distance echoing fear.
Tomorrow frames the wreckage of today.



War, horror, sabotage, treason, Syria!
but not only you my dear distant friend
Agatu too, Barkin Ladi grieving!
South Sudan, Borno and Bantu land
Mubi fared the same, Libya, Egypt too!

So Syria, we know these stories too well
Daily, mother grows impatient, pained!
by your constant bickering with neighbours
Today, Damascus, tomorrow Russia!

Aleppo, please put your house in order!
Missiles serve only one end, destruction!
Flesh and blood need not be contended with.
Boundaries and culture are stiff chains
above which we must teach children to rise

Look beyond, see your magical sunset!
Enchanting valleys, hills and streams of peace!
Syria, we pray for you, and your young ones
From Golan heights we beseech of heaven
That of Syria, we may hear glad tidings!



I love you to the moon dear lovely Son
Your high land is blessed with milk and fine wine
With my mouth I sing praises of your worth
Syria Oh! I wink at your ill foes
The foes that till for gold in army’s tent
Perfect pilferers in silly torn cent
Little Mongers seen roaming the soil scent
Dubey Daadi lifted the flame of peace
Syria, my petals in withered leaves
You are fountain where my heart is drought weaved
Come little king, let’s tune the rhythm up
See hidden treasures stored beneath the fruits
We wine and dine with serpents like the dove
We kill them with sweet empty nothings joke
The stolen honey has turned sweet sour
Serpents slowly sipping spice silently
If there is gold will they attack a stone?
If you are empty will they pursue Glory?
Syria Sinbad read my emotion
Let them be tattooed on fragile lips, Son

Rachel Charles


The vast desert mirrors lonely cities
Sounds of children became sounds of terror
Death need not visit, he was called upon
To feast on the simple and nobodies

Chaos wailed in the streets with a vigour,
So strong a dirge played naturally
Buildings turned weapons their bricks became stones,
Weighing heavily on bodies and life

Syria lies on tension, her heart armed
Chanting refugees flee her tight bosom
Running towards the wild raging oceans
Comfort flees in search of comfort, she seeks
Her own remedy in foreign terrains

Men weep with a woman’s eyes fragile with tears
Their seeds sprouted to be burnt, buried dreams
Power seeks evil immortality
Ruining that which it should govern aright
Pledging war to those it should protect still

Syria lies on tension, her heart armed
May hope bring her firm peace with sane powers

Omolola Onigbinde

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