We remember,
boys left behind
and buried.

We will not speak
of war, but we will sing
of the dead, how they dance
in our ribs.

We will unbury
their memory, replace
them with all the arms
still lying around.

I don’t want
to see a single
Kalashnikov
in sight.

Rather, I want to see
boys, dancing,
given lipstick and
kohl, told to paint
the town any shade
that fits.

As we stand on this sacred sand,
I want to say
a prayer
for our buried boys.

بارك كل خطوة اتعدي عاالطريق الصعب

Let us untangle
their bodies from bloodied flags,
lower them back to the loving  ground,
let them sleep, if only for once.