Aleppo
.
outside the bazaar
she stands by the gate, the stonework
banded white and black, the ancient wooden door
decorated with metal rosettes
and spoked sun wheels
.
but time’s a difference you can’t
see: old rubble
has become new rubble
mortared with body parts
.
(we bought a toy horse –
chestnut, with a white blaze,
red lips
and golden tassels
rearing on bent wire legs –
the true madness of his world
reflected in his crazed eyes)
.
we ask ourselves
(because who else
might be interested?) what became
of our friends Sami and Abdullah?
.
at the madrasa the Byzantine fronds
of Empress Helena’s palms, petrified
for fifteen centuries in the capitols
of her cathedral, wave
a goodbye to all that history stuff
a relief from insanity
in oblivion
.
is there a way back?
.
chants (byzantine)
chants (islamic)
chants (would be a fine thing)
© Colin Crewdson
.
.
.
like a memory
.
in this flat desert of stones
I heard gunshots
.
the letters that arrived
dog-eared, marked with blue pencil
post restante
.
recounted true stories
blurred with the incompleteness
that told more
.
there is no joy
in this killing
.
© Colin Crewdson
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