2016 12 12
Since Taratha, sweet lady of the sea,
first walked the white city of Halab,
the children of Zobah play chase in groves
and sing with birds at sunset by the stream
that flows now with the red blood of lost souls.
Who hears their voices cry out in the night
when the lion son of Baal stalks old streets
and devours the children who played in groves
where birds twitch mute at sunset by the stream
that shines now with the red blood of lost souls?
The lord of death soars among weeping clouds,
hurling thunderbolts of pride at white homes
where children of Zobah hide in burned groves
and clutch dead birds at sunset by the stream
that howls now with the red blood of lost souls.
Grieving Taratha returns to the sea,
where she emerged eight thousand years ago,
bearing bodies of children in dark waves
while wind erases their steps by the stream
that weeps now with the red blood of lost souls.
The white city that long rang bright with songs
of love and sorrow from the hearts of lovers
lies ruined in rubble of broken dreams,
ancient streets cluttered with skulls by the stream
that moans now with the red blood of lost souls.
Whose voice will ring now off white marble walls
where Taratha clutches the bleeding child
who once played games, laughing in sunlit groves
where birds dissolve to white dust by the stream
that screams now with the red blood of lost souls?