The gardener of Aleppo
For Ibrahim, son of Abu Ward
 
Oh, my beautiful boy
my heart quietly sang
every time you filled
your watering can
and overflowed with joy
 
No prouder father
has this city ever known
for in our bones
we both knew
what we were risking
 
For this is the garden’s song
I heard each and every dawn:
Today a seed must give its life
for beauty to be born
 
Here, my son
my comfort
Here, my son
my hand
And here, my son
my open heart

May it bloom within your broken heart
and upon this broken land