griefin weeks nothing has moved me.i chase something and fail.the screen dries my eyes.no rivers flow in Aleppo.there are no streams, only rubble.only dead children litter the street.a leaf falls outside my window.my father coughs up blood.soon he will die, withering, curlinglike an Aleppo-dry flower.the bombs rain in Aleppo. People cry.A dry shower wets my hand. the light wetsthe dying eyes my father wears on his head.my father cannot rise. my mother kneels. she feeds himwater. the people of Aleppo cry for water. they beg. dustis stuffed down their throat.death marches into Aleppoand into my home. my mother sits beside the sinking light,asleep, awake I stand. the birds twitter, the birds twitter and fallsilent inthe night that Aleppo burns.the night floats on the holy blue. the holy way towers into theholy sky. the holy bell blares midnight to the statue with the armand the statue with the face and the statue with the bizarre smileand the statue with nothing at all but holes. the world gapes.the world is burning, the world needs to be knitted apart.my house is on fire, the fields are on fire, i run out to face the starsthe shine on Aleppo. the plaster crumbles from the walls. no one arrivesand screams, look, Aleppo burns too!there is nothing to knit me to the oceans of Aleppomy ocean of grief cannot be contained by sheets dry asAleppo’s winds. the sun rises and falls, rises and fallsdaily outside the window. the sky cleaves in half andpools in the puddles on the bedroom floor. my mother withers and diesas Aleppo falls.i am silent.i cannot sing.there are no words in me.the spring is bricked.i am dying, i am dying, choking on bunniesand grenade-crusts.i freeze and fall, freeze and fallinto the grey spiral streets a labyrinth under the skinbursting with the birth of a thousand worlds, bloatedwith the light of the moon. the moon blazes in the oil sky.i claw and clutch, claw and clutch the ancient brick walls that weep,the ancient brick walls that trembled with birth one day, my mouthgapes in a scream a man in Aleppo screams.how does one write, mother? how does onesing, brother? father, can you help me? can you make me speak before?father, can you hear me? mother, are you there?or should i bid my final goodbye, likethe flowers of Aleppo do?