We’re always asked to be patient, and patience shows up like a bride forced to her groom, and kisses the dark, hideous incapacity….
Thousands of green orchards inside of us will die, so that some flowers can escape from all the things that were hanged before….
If only the gorgeous past still had fingers to unbutton the shirt of our upcoming years, we would bear with the unbearable, for another thousand times, we would get used to blood and battles, but it’s hard for a honey pot to accept all of this bitterness…
We are the poems when they dance in shelves of dust….
We are the songs when they’re resurrected from their death throes…
We are a generation whose endeavor was teared going after the lying wishes…
We are trees looking for birds in a naked sky…
We are a generation that stitches its twigs under the fierce hatchets, and pulls its broken days together, like a vase, just trying to be a mother’s caring hand for the baby hope.
Our days?
Are these our days or a funeral crawling on our shoulders, and weaving our shrouds from every footstep?
What will we tell our future kids?
When we kiss them, will our bitterness obliterate the apples in their cheeks?
When we talk about the breeze of our countries, will a gunpowder pass through their pure lungs?
When we sing together before bed, will the roar of a mad grenade trample on their melodies?
And eventually, will we even survive until our lives meet theirs?

Shahd Alhamed

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