When the Arab spring faded and summer never came
because the tides were controlled by somebody else,
he escaped and later she and after even more hurt and pain,
they arrived here in our little town where we were living
as if nothing had ever happened.
If I had to spell ‘courage’, it would have their initials in it.
Now summer is approaching fast with every new blossom,
while Aleppo is falling into ashes of men whose bones
must be rotting from the inside.
He and she are making their own seasons now
with new words and foods and routines as buds
and the ancient, trustworthy spirit that mankind, perhaps,
has always been on the move, searching for a home somewhere.
And the arrows, arguably, have only ever pointed up –
or at each other.