After Bejan Matur
It came quickly to take them away
They never knew if the flames were Russian or British
But it came nonetheless and flames can make you so cold if you survive them.
It came slowly in the night for her and
I want to say that all the feathers from her exploding pillowcase made Angels
that took her to the place between heaven and the smouldering signposts of hell.
When it snows in Aleppo I hope that a bird made of pillow feathers sing her songs
I hope that it rests to sip from the scarlet slush and makes a new nest
I hope the snowmen made of people where they fell fly away.
When Aleppo thaws I hope we see it.
I hope children stop reaching for red crayons in describing their family
Mother’s and Father’s in wax drawings should be circles and sticks smiling on green grass.