I have cried until my tears ran out, and I pray every night till dawn…
Syria, when will we come back to you? You’re like a wounded child. I am sad to what has happened to you, for your streets and neighborhoods. They have become the neighborhoods of sadness.
Who will stop the injustice? And who will wash away the blood of your martyrs from the streets? When will your wounds heal?
Syria, when will flowers spring up in the ground? When will the birds sing in your skies, when will eyes be smiling again, and when will the migrant birds return?
When will the destruction be turned into buildings, and when will children play in your streets again?