Aleppo in Autumn Leaves ~ Bill the Butcher

Aleppo in Autumn Leaves ~ Bill the Butcher

(For a Syrian friend, a long time ago.)

I remember you, all those years ago
Sitting opposite me, in that room in Delhi
Smiling as we talked.

The light through the window
On your face, on your blond hair
Your freckled skin – which had made me think you were
European; Austrian I thought you had told me
Before you repeated it, and I understood you were

Syrian.

I remember asking you of Damascus, Aleppo
Of the old souks I’d read of
Culture as half as old as time.
We had talked of your green valleys
Your forested mountains
And autumn red and gold in leaves.

You had told me of your city
Ancient and serene
Where you had grown up
And where you yearned to be again.

I’d listened to you, imagining
Pillared columns and narrow lanes
Between colourful stalls.
I’d imagined a city ancient yet new
Aleppo golden in a swarm of autumn leaves.

And I’d looked out of the window and seen
Delhi’s dusty summer sky
Bleached white with the heat of noon.

I wonder where you are now. I wonder what
You think of what has happened to your city
Torn in half and burned to a cinder
Ruins in the dust
History thrown away in a blink of time.

I wonder on which side you are
What you are doing
If you are even alive
If you have enough to eat
And a roof above your head.

Did you marry the girl you talked about?
About whom you’d apologised
Because you didn’t have a photo of hers to show me?
Were you happy together?
Are you together now?

Questions without answers.

Perhaps
It is better
That I do not know.

For then I can imagine you as we were
Talking together in a Delhi room
Of a world that did not then seem
An infinity away.

I can remember the laughter
And almost persuade myself
That, somewhere, you are happy
That you are laughing now.

Even if you come through, how would I know it?
After all these years
I can still see your face
I can hear your voice
But I can’t remember your name.

Maybe that’s good too
Because it makes you everyone
Everyone’s story is yours
A million lives in your life.

And, maybe

You still have the memory, at least
Of walking the streets of old Aleppo
Golden in a swarm of autumn leaves.

 
 

Copyright B Purkayastha 2013

About these ads

Tags: Aleppo in Autumn Leaves ~ Bill the Butcher, culture, heritage, history, imperialism, poetry, syria

• February 24, 2013
• earth, freedom, history, poetry, racism, war machine
• 3 comments