When they kill you
I lose the trace of dandelions

When they drive you from your home
I become a wanderer in my own soul

When your parents explode before your very eyes
My dreams are torn to pieces

I sprinkle my bedsheets and pillows with all my perfume
But my room becomes filled with the smell of gunpowder

The minibus that takes me to school everyday
is the same ambulance that carries your corpse

from the refugee camp to the martyrs’ cemetery
The teacher talks to an empty classroom

And the blackboard is the only mirror with a memory
That recalls me nothing but your tearful glance

A bottomless pit opens in the mouth of TV reporter
Which devours everything: the dinner on the table

and my birthday cake with all its lighted candles-
only you remain with the STONES

That your hands and your brother’s hands
Would throw at your enemy

Your weapon will always be as vivid as poetry
Be it at the bottom of the river

In the heart of the mountain
Or in your hands

But their guns , bombs and missiles
Will be rusty one day, only good for museums

However much they will want to kill you
However much the dandelions would want to drag me along

In their wake
On the trail of lost footsteps …