This story is piercing
By Hawar Moradi and Fazil Moradi
It moves through my whole being,
and keeps me worryingly wide-awake.
It has inhabited my body for a long time,
traveling along the walls, and rivers.
From one home to the omnipresent seas, and returns to my only garden.
It leaves no trace behind, as it walks the only world that is snow-covered.
This is how human is born.
It creates voices, and trees without leaves.
It gives birth to buds that live for all time,
birds without sky, and bugs that cannot live without tree leaves.
I am not sure, why.
It is winter, and I am sitting by the only window of my only room,
thinking of what safety could mean in Afrin.
It is todays name of the human story.