Aleppo Diary

Translated from Arabic by the author and Norbert Hirschhorn1.Writing hurts.The blood dripping down tv screenpoisons air,stains couch with what looks likedried coffee. We touch, trembling,afraid of infection.Our backs bent as if descending to hell,red brown rust spotsreflect on our faces.We rub heads, turn away,and lick salt tears.They who crawl street screenleave green traces tarmac,which burst into bushes basil.They throw us a flower die quicklyto spare shame.Take off your shoes, walk broken glass,for now you are in sacred valley.2.I sit my balcony. Aleppo, spread before me, black deserted. A clatter dishes dark means life does go on. No other sound save sporadic gunfire somewhere distant until peculiar whistle shell explodes. Someone leaves this earth dry throat. Aleppo meremains black, still. Those huge shadows might be trees, or childhood goblins vapours exhaled women waiting for their children, they already numbers news bulletin.3.Perhaps time water plants growingby fallen wall, shattered alleyin black-and-white city named Aleppo.In gap between two houses, sparrowtrembles child's hand, snipercombs his pomaded hair behind stackof books shielding against death sky.Inside church an angel, wings outstretched,pierced tears bullets, boysmutched dust, laughing. The sniper sucksseeds pomegranate, lets riflerest wall. In Death grows alleys like arotted plant, pours sky:nuts, bolts, tnt chlorine.Death stares mirrorfor one moment, turns, sights,pulls trigger.People bread lines know all this. Alsochildren reciting school.And hunchbacked old man.