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.