What It Whispers.

hear me.

The video! 💕👆👆

*Slight Graphic Content*

Stale bread,
A barrel of food,
Mushed rice,
Broken pieces of clay pot
Now a plate
For the hands that once held expensive chinaware.

Scarred forehead,
Bloody nose
Disfigured lips
Teary eyes holding hope,
Glints with happiness
Eyeing the blanket.
Shivered did he when the temperature zeroed and below
Clothes barely covered
Leaking tent roofs,
And yes, he too once had a thermal heating at home,
Until the fellow brethren
Bombed his precious home
And his father's fingers and legs went flying to be buried under the rubbles.
Now orphaned
Say they his mom is somewhere around,
Little did he know
That she fled in a leaking boat
In the darkening hours of the night
With his baby sister
Presuming him to be dead.

It's dawn, prayer echoed,
Water almost frozen,
He splashes onto his face
To bow to the One above,
His scar stings, the water pierces,
But salvation it is, he no more feels the pain.
Numbed are his limbs,
Broken is his heart,
Behind his eye lies no more dreams,
But nightmares that were a reality not long ago,
The bloody torso of his father,
The disfigured face,
The cries of his baby sister
The screams of his mother
When a guard ripped off her clothes
And forced himself onto her,
Saw he what he shouldn't of the womanhood,
Saw he what he shouldn't see of humanity,
Saw he what he shouldn't see of the world,
But he was only ten.

The scar is a medal he wears proving his survival,
The broken pieces of clay pot is his possession and fuel,
The rusted barrel is his source of purity,
And every night he shivers,
He prays that he could be wrapped in a blanket
As the ones a few tents away are.
Some help would a bearded man do,
An amiable one like my father,
He presumes and shuts his eyes.

And about his dreams, you ask?
He dreams of airplanes never speeding on the sky,
He prays that he never hears an explosion,
He prays that no child sees his bloody father,
He prays that no man sees a woman being robbed off her womanhood,
He prays that this tenure in this world would be over,
So that he could hug his loved ones above there.
Above all, he does dream of a day,
When he too would write poetry like me and you,
And he too would stare at the moon and smile,
With worries that you and me have,
Not some leaking roof, stinging scars, amputated fingers, mushed rice that could barely fill his stomach and haunting nightmares.
Make me hold my pen, ya sadeeq,
He is crying.
Are you hearing? Oh Ummah?

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A/N: Please donate for the sake of rebuilding Aleppo and extending our help to refugees and all the suffering ones. Even the littlest counts, $5 or £5, or even lesser, anything at all! You can either make the donation by yourself, or let your family/guardians know. For the sake of Allah. 💜💕
Links below:
https://www.ihh.org.tr/en/donate

https://www.hrf.org.uk/our-projects/syria-appeal/