Silence, tiresome and pens are carving painful letters on walls.
Silence, tears and smolder are suffocating the place and souls inside.
Silence, fear and flames are sucking colors out of smiles.
Burnt photos, demolished dreams, remains of laughter are echoing among the remains of walls.
A humble house, once, built as a home then turned into a refuge.
A home, built by sweaty days of an old man, whose sweat sparkled and defied darkness. Darkness circled the future of youth as the old man demised.
Terror is breaking from far. Terror is reaching from far. That terror will be disappointed by the truth. The residents have left. They followed the old man’s trail and laughed.
Tyranny will arrive. Injustice will wallow in the void and weep among the ruins.
An unjust king, of a heart as black as ink, holding a grudge as fiery as the sun, will conquer that house or what’s left of home.
And that is how things are.
وائل يكتب 