River,
Where will we find candles for all the graves,
Angels to spend the night over wounds,
Heavenly ears to listen to the moaning,
To the last gasps of the dead in our breath?
In the smoke camouflaging dawn,
Casting it over faces like a sheet of flame,
In the splinters of a child dreaming on the threshold.
And in dreams buried in ashes,
Strewn on burning banks,
Where graves are dug.
Your waters celebrate in our veins
We keep hearing a sound repeating:
Euphrates
A freshness
Writing its poem
On the leaves of light.