It’s been days since I heard the painful news, my friend.
My heart is still mourning your loss.
If you could only see the bloodshed that came after you had left.
If only you knew the details of how I live after you had left; they all mourn your loss.
If only you knew that my pride and ego were broken with time, they knelt down in front of the atrocities of war; the war that took you away from us for no reason.
And here I am; I abandoned our little village that we used to brag about in front of our friends at the university.
Your little brush and beautiful paintings are no longer capable of describing what has happened to our country.
And here I am today; in neighboring Jordan, and with desperate fingers I write to you what happened, my friend.
I couldn’t even quench your grave with water, for even that was not spared from the mortars’ fire.
My friend, how many dreams did we plant on that bench in our university. We even carved our names into the wood to be seen by future generations.
We waited for the flowers and hope to grow.
My friend, oh how many times did we play there, lived happy and sad moments side by side.
We succeeded, and we failed.
But with your death I realized that all we had planted were memories.
My friend, I will return one day, to kneel next to your grave and pray.
I will return one day to tell you that the ink in my pen was helpless; it couldn’t write the words of love I have for you in my heart.
I will remain helpless to write an obituary suitable only for you.