#fadybouaz

#fadybouaz 

Corpses of the Innocents in the Streets

I have no desire for anything,  
not even food or drink,  
I have no desire except to cry,  
that I cannot stop.

The sounds of machine guns and cannons  
warn of an approaching death,  
spreading everywhere,  
nowhere to hide,  
death sees everyone.

The streets are crowded with ruin,  
which has become graves  
for bodies of innocents  
who were once alive.

Nameless corpses,  
wounds bleeding silently,  
so tragically,  
blood has become a familiar sight,  
and death a number  
in a news report  
no one reads.

Politicians count the dead,  
as if tallying points  
in a bloody game,  
victims are zeros  
in the equation of tyranny,  
and their bodies are pawns sacrificed  
in endless barbaric games.

Where is history?  
History is being written now,  
but it is written with shame,  
stitched by executioners  
into the skin of victims.  
And the earth remembers,  
even if stone shatters and breaks.

Why all this evil?  
Because this land is a mirror  
to every place where innocents are killed,  
their blood flows like ancient tales,  
we read them, yet we learn nothing.

Death passes like rain,  
but it waters nothing,  
only graves.

Names accumulate  
like autumn leaves,  
and the rest ask:  
"Will we reach the end of the list tomorrow?"

So tragically,  
the answer is: No.  
Our world is a bleeding wound,  
and every wound  
a line in a history  
that condemns us all.  
And yet,  
in every corpse,  
a seed of memory  
awaits to be told.

Fady Bouaz 
All rights reserved ©️ 
Friday 18/7/2025 

#fadybouaz

جثث الأبرياء في الشوارع

لا رغبة لي في شيء،  
حتى الطعام والشراب،  
لا رغبة لي إلا في البكاء  
الذي أنا عاجز عن إيقافه.

أصوات الرشاشات والمدافع  
تنذر بموتٍ قادم،  
ينتشر في كل مكان،  
ولا يمكن الاختباء،  
الموت يرى الجميع.

الشوارعُ مكتظةٌ بالخراب،  
الذي صار مدافنَ  
لجثثِ أبرياءَ  
كانوا أحياء.

جثثٌ بلا أسماء،  
جراحٌ تنزفُ بصمت،  
للأسف الشديد،  
صار الدمُ مشهدًا مألوفًا،  
والموتُ رقمًا  
في تقريرٍ صحفيٍّ  
لا يقرأه أحد.

السياسيون يعدّون القتلى،  
كأنهم يحصون نقاطًا  
في لعبةٍ دموية،  
الضحايا أصفارٌ  
في معادلة الطغيان،  
وأجسادهم بيادق يضحّى بها  
في ألعاب شر بربريةٍ لا تنتهي.

أين التاريخ؟  
التاريخُ يُكتَبُ الآن،  
لكنّه يُكتَبُ بالعار،  
يخيطه الجلادون  
في جلد الضحايا.  
والأرضُ تتذكّر،  
حتى لو تشظّى الحجرُ وانكسر.

لماذا كل هذا الشر؟  
لأنّ هذه الأرض مرآةٌ  
لكلِّ مكانٍ يُقتلُ فيه الأبرياء،  
دماؤهم تسيلُ كالحكاياتِ القديمة،  
نقرؤها، ولا نتعلّم.

الموتُ يمرُّ كالمطر،  
لكنّه لا يسقي شيئًا،  
فقطِ القبور.

الأسماءُ تتراكمُ  
كأوراق الخريف،  
والباقونَ يسألون:  
"هل غدًا نصلُ إلى آخر القائمة؟"

للأسف الشديد،  
الجواب: لا.  
عالمُنا جراحٌ تنزف،  
وكلُّ جرحٍ  
سطرٌ في تاريخٍ  
يُديننا جميعًا.  
ومع ذلك،  
في كلِّ جثةٍ،  
بذرةُ ذاكرةٍ  
تنتظر أن تُروى.

فادي بوعز
جميع الحقوق محفوظة ©️
الجمعة 18/7/2025 

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