Aleppo

I sit on the balcony. Aleppo spread before me black and deserted. The clatter of crockery in the dark means life goes on. No sound save sporadic gunfire from somewhere, then a single shell preceded by a peculiar whistle. Someone is leaving this planet with a dry throat. Aleppo before me black and still. These huge shadows might be trees or childhood goblins or black vapours exhaled by women waiting for children who are already numbers in a news report.
 
Aleppo. No oud plucked. No 'Swaying Silhouette'. No drinks in The Nightingale. No drinkers. No song.
 
One by one
they awaken
the beasts of darkness.

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Scenes from Aleppo