WINTER INK 

Winter is such a graceful season,
Nature in its most vulnerable form.
Trees are bare to the bone,
Prolific branches,
Grey veins,
Beating roots,
Patient sleep.
How can something which seems so lifeless,
Bare so much life?

No, I don't like winter,
Spring and fall are my friends.
Spring excites me, too much
Fall is all.
But I'd like to write about winter,
Winter is mysterious to me.
Silent and sometimes fierce,
Like the dreams of a beginner,
An amator of the Art of life.

February still,
The tree is still there.
The tree is still bare,
But February is not still.

Dreary wind,
Foolish drops.
I will dream of Aleppo,
I will sing with the poet from home.

No I won't.
Poets are sad
Poets are bitter.
No I can't be bitter,
When I can play.
Frosty Splendors,
Here I'll stay.
I'll be good, I swear!
Can you please take me there?

Artwork: Breaking by Marinella Boicu.

I have always felt powerless about the humanitarian crisis going on in Syria and with children refugees. Ashamed, even. For now, this is what I could do to raise some awareness about the topic. You can follow the #NOLOSTGeneration tag platform if you'd like to share your story. The online campaign is initiated by UNICEF and aims to draw again the world's attention to the existent crisis.

Much Love,

Oumayma