The vagabonds of Hierapolis

I know, Maria, that there's a child inside you, and that children fear bullets and cherish their mothers' breasts. But I know you have no hope but a few thousand unarmed souls to face all this sorrow. You love roses, but my garden no longer grows thorns. Since the day they came, they shattered the latest news, silenced the music, and swept our laughter from the streets. You entered our present, but I saved some of my stories. I hid them for you. I knew you would come. I knew you would leave. And that I, too, would leave, so I entrusted them to you: my father's infatuation with Samira Tawfiq and my mother's jealousy of her; Walid Abu Jahash, who stole a nightingale from me—I am a child who stole my wings that will one day gather; Jumaa al-Hamimati and his darting kites; Urwa, who was always late for his dreams... My city is a story now in your hands. And I entrusted my heart to your eyes as you depart, waiting for a whistle to announce the end of this absurdity. I know, Maria, that there's a little girl inside you, and children fear bullets and cherish their mothers' breasts. But all I have to offer you to face all this sorrow are two bare arms. I also know that you love flowers, but my garden now only grows thorns. Since the day they came, they shattered the trees, silenced the music, and swept our laughter from the streets. They seized our present, but I kept some of my stories. I hid them for you. I knew you would come. I knew you would leave. And I, too, will leave, so I entrust them to you: the story of my father's passion for Samira Tawfiq and my mother's jealousy of her. The story of Walid Abu Jahsh, who stole my nightingale when I was young and then robbed me of my wings when I grew up. The tale of Jumaa al-Hamimati and his enchanting gypsy girls. The story of Awrah, who was always late for his dreams... My city, a story I now entrust to you. I left my heart in your eyes as you departed, waiting for a whistle to announce the end of this absurdity.