Cross-post from
war_poetry:
Aleppo
I talk back to the videos. Someone ate paper. Someone isn’t eating anymore.
Mornings like this, I wish I never loved anyone. What is it to be a lucky city, a row of white houses strung with Christmas lights.
There is no minute
A fortuneteller told me I’d marry one of Aleppo’s sons. That was seven years ago.
to spare.
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