Ammar Shouli
Writing is only war, with obvious features and hidden details and unknown period of time.
Our blood is spilled on papers.
On which we fight our raging thoughts, cutting its throats and burning its ends.
Maybe we’ll put the fire down, maybe we will stand against our nightmares.
Maybe the heart will be silent after a heartache
And after each war, we count our loss in silence
After every thought filled by silence
As a man dies after his poem

ما الكتابةُ إلَّا امتدادٌ لِحربٍ وَاضِحَةِ المعالِمِ، خفيَّةَ التفاصِيْلِ، مَجْهولَةِ الزَّمَنِ،

 تُراقُ بِها دِمائُنا على الوَرَقِ.

 نُحاربُ فِيها أَفكاراً ثَائِرَةً فَنَضْرِبُ أَعْنَاقَها و نُحْرِقُ أَعْمَاقَها،

 لعلَّها تَخْمِدُ، علَّنا نَصْمِدُ علَّ كَوابِيسَنَا تَرْقُدُ،

 لَعَلَّ القلبَ بعدَ تَأَوِّهٍ يَصْمِتُ،

 وبعدَ كُلِّ حَرْبٍ..... نُحْصِي خَسَائِرنَا فِي سُكُونٍ،

 بعدَ كُلِّ خَاطِرَةٍ يملَؤُها السُّكوتُ،

 فَالمَرءُ بَعْدَ قَصيدَتِه يَموتُ.