Yes, I am here,
right here, by this small window,
eyes wet with tears,
watching the misty streets of your city,
where the whimpering of mothers mixes with the loneliness of your daughters.

Here, I await from moment to moment the arrival of your spring,
though your cruel autumn has shaken the branches of tomorrow,
lined up our children between dustbins,
or hidden them beneath the rubble of earthen walls.

Yes, I am here,
I look out the little windowpane,
become witness to the dark day of a father, mourning alone at a table,
a mother whose arms close around emptiness,
a defenceless child with nowhere to run to.

This very spot is where I will stay,
motionless as Salsal and Shah Mama,
riveted to the images of ruins in the face of your ambitious efforts,
here I silently hold back the tears,
sunk in waves of sorrow,
I mourn for the buds that will never blossom,
spurned in the face of unexpected farewells
and dinners abandoned warm.

I watch the emergence of butterflies, whose wings must still unfold.

Yes, I am here,
witnessing the crooked back of a father
who doesn’t know which wall is his home,
yet exposes every crumbling brick to the air,
in the hope of finding his children.

Yes, I am here,
on the dark boundary of silence,
amidst the whispers of those
who no longer exist.