Translated by: Reem Ghanayem


I am still the same boy

 who pretends to cover his ears

 in the face of the fireworks

That were thrown under his feet by his loved ones and friends

And he had to laugh in their faces

After they exploded in the air next to him




If my life were

Less lead and fires

I would not think of a picture of an explosive belt

Except for the way you turn your bra to your waist 

to take it off




The boy whose family was bombed

Played far from the yard of the house

Didn’t know the war had an aeroplane.

Now he sits

 in his wheelchair 

and thinks all the dust is from the chalks 

he drew his kite with




In your distant city

War dances on corpses, corpses and house dust

And when you jump up from the noise of bombing,

I wake up in another city, with signs of torture

 on my body



I still prefer bowling in the neighbourhoods 

over closed showrooms 

during Saturday and Sunday in Europe

I want the empty plastic bottles 

and the discarded pile of sand 

at their edges

I want to make a cross with a rubber ball

On the backs of friends who have run away

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