Muhammad Najem


The Syrian winter is creeping in,

It’s chilly, dark and dank.


The poor must face it silently.

The only comfort they could seek

Is in the eyes untrammelled

Of the rich.


Not for them the warm drinks of winter,

The happy songs or merry dances.

Their poverty preclude such joys,

For ten years they have lived and died,

All ravaged by the tragic blight

Of war, there seems no end in sight.


The dread winter now creeps in upon them,

It’s endless rain gives no respite,

It leaves no house or tent untouched.

Tearing down in torrents

The water relentlessly finds a path,

Through every embroidered nick and tear of fabric.

It forms in pools below,

Ruining blankets and clothing that children wear.


Rain could be a cooling and a cleansing

After the torrid heat of summer.

But this wintry rain is unforgiving,

Only nightmares follow in its wake,

Unleashing distressful cries for help.


A Syrian winter is creeping in,

It’s chilly, dark and dank.

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