Hatred was older than them,
their playground hidden
behind dunes and camouflage.
Beyond a veil of curfew
they sought a crescent youth
but found black powder mist,
belligerent epaulets and stars
to galloping drums of war,
so much noise, so much noise
to herald a quiet death
with deafening silence.
Dodging guns and fear
every night they would wait,
for the storm of rubble
and the pounding of hate,
for the blackest hours
in the darkness of war.
Their love was a gap of light
over the beige concrete,
he played Sinbad of the desert
and she was Scheherazade,
a thousand and one nights of greed,
a thousand and one nights of pain
eroding their youthful essence.
Besides broken monuments
like aboard magic carpets,
their touch was ointment
for their wounded innocence.
Dodging guns and fear
every night they would wait,
for the storm of rubble
and the pounding of hate,
for the blackest hours
in the darkness of war.
Holding onto each other
so close to their hearts,
they sheltered a dream
to run away from death.
Two shots and a warning
silenced down their love.
A discovered reason to live
was a whisper too bright,
for two war fireflies
across enemies’ lines.
Dodging guns and fear
every night they would wait
for the storm of rubble
and the pounding of hate,
for the blackest hours
in the darkness of war.