The roots of my soul.
The source of my blood flow.
The heartache I retain, sheltered in sorrow.
The blooming love, exalted through the singing heartbeats composing the sense of Home we carry within.
Waking up, early in the morning, to the salesman riding his carriage and yelling the prices of the watermelons over the sound of the footsteps of his horse.
Car horns blasting over the policemen whistles blowing, trying to operate the traffic while we’re just trying to cross the street.
Family gatherings at our grandparents household, the laughter of our loved ones and the tea after lunch followed by the afternoon nap before the awakening of the city at night.
The smell of spices in the souk of the city and my unstoppable sneezing, walking through its alley.
The queen of our hearts, the Citadel of Aleppo and the countless memories our spirits hold in between the chasms of its old walls.
The melody of the oud playing, spellbound by the muezzin calling for the prayer along with the bells of the church ringing.
Screams, bombings, pain.
Theft of children’s innocence