It was one of those nights.That ran through her,like a flowing river in the monsoon.Like the contact between eyelashes and raindrops.It rippled into sparkles that spread across the veranda,leaning against the moist air.The windows were all closed by now.The roots wet,the lonely barrows of swirling waves that live in the vaccancy,amidst no dimensions at all.
Depth knows no bounds,it only drives something - something like a slippery,soft,smooth touch,a touch beyond contact.The city lights were all dimmed,the doors statued to their temporary responsibilities,as if they were guarding truths,protecting an inner secret that was still just in the stage of infancy ; only the night knew that there it was - it just had to be.
The paths within Homs were naked now,with bones and human flesh scattered here and there,buried under the broken courtyards and once cheerful corridors.Shellings had sucked up the vividly bright stories of its streets.The Krak des Chevaliers,the Church of Saint Elian had stood in its heart like a peaceful warrior,one who is always weary to pick up his sword and instead,searches for firelight to lead to an illumination.And then one day,Homs was suddenly a tale of despair,a haunting part of a place somewhere outside the world.So,no one cared.Some lifted an eyebrow and looked aside while holding scarves to hide the rumble of the defiance of sequences.Some sobbed.And some,just with the core of a night embedded in them,departed.It was a silent departure that the world accepted smoothly.As if they were supposed to happen,so no one cared for a funeral.Homs was watching and swinging between laughter and delirium and nausea and before anyone knew there was more to come,he turned into a large burial ground.
Some fled like insects do in search of a lantern,an illusion at whose heart is a new,oblivioned beginning.Some drowned and rested their faces on the sandy beach.Some staggered their feet
and constantly made themselves realise that an empty stomach is a good reason to live for.In such tense times,no one made a remark about nights and days,or seasons,or the weather.It was the same shade of grey - the same,unbearable odour of gunpowder and absence,the same wild eyes of mothers striving to convince themselves that children do survive on water,at least until a month,at least a fortnight...a fortnight...what if the relief arrived in a fortnight?Their bodies were all filled with rashes and there was not much water in the city to take a bath (but enough water to feed the children.)There were dead birds here and there,dispersed like pebbles.There were bloody hospitals that didn't return much of life to anyone.And stuck in between circumstances like a heap of unmotivated survival,Firas had returned today.There was nothing in what remained of the house except a few broken utensils and a few squashes and grapefruits.She boiled the former and peeled the grapefruit.The half rotten fruit found salvation in their craving taste buds.She sat there,her head leaned on his shoulder,quietly sobbing the roar of an ocean rising inside her.
There was love,amidst rubble.There was life,amidst nothing.
Depth knows no bounds,it only drives something - something like a slippery,soft,smooth touch,a touch beyond contact.The city lights were all dimmed,the doors statued to their temporary responsibilities,as if they were guarding truths,protecting an inner secret that was still just in the stage of infancy ; only the night knew that there it was - it just had to be.
The paths within Homs were naked now,with bones and human flesh scattered here and there,buried under the broken courtyards and once cheerful corridors.Shellings had sucked up the vividly bright stories of its streets.The Krak des Chevaliers,the Church of Saint Elian had stood in its heart like a peaceful warrior,one who is always weary to pick up his sword and instead,searches for firelight to lead to an illumination.And then one day,Homs was suddenly a tale of despair,a haunting part of a place somewhere outside the world.So,no one cared.Some lifted an eyebrow and looked aside while holding scarves to hide the rumble of the defiance of sequences.Some sobbed.And some,just with the core of a night embedded in them,departed.It was a silent departure that the world accepted smoothly.As if they were supposed to happen,so no one cared for a funeral.Homs was watching and swinging between laughter and delirium and nausea and before anyone knew there was more to come,he turned into a large burial ground.
Some fled like insects do in search of a lantern,an illusion at whose heart is a new,oblivioned beginning.Some drowned and rested their faces on the sandy beach.Some staggered their feet
and constantly made themselves realise that an empty stomach is a good reason to live for.In such tense times,no one made a remark about nights and days,or seasons,or the weather.It was the same shade of grey - the same,unbearable odour of gunpowder and absence,the same wild eyes of mothers striving to convince themselves that children do survive on water,at least until a month,at least a fortnight...a fortnight...what if the relief arrived in a fortnight?Their bodies were all filled with rashes and there was not much water in the city to take a bath (but enough water to feed the children.)There were dead birds here and there,dispersed like pebbles.There were bloody hospitals that didn't return much of life to anyone.And stuck in between circumstances like a heap of unmotivated survival,Firas had returned today.There was nothing in what remained of the house except a few broken utensils and a few squashes and grapefruits.She boiled the former and peeled the grapefruit.The half rotten fruit found salvation in their craving taste buds.She sat there,her head leaned on his shoulder,quietly sobbing the roar of an ocean rising inside her.
There was love,amidst rubble.There was life,amidst nothing.
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