Another August

Another August

An August,

the hot air,

the sound of sparrows no longer comes.

They are frightened.

The grapevine on the wall

has dried up.

The cries of “Allahu Akbar,”

the jihad has won.

Men with covered faces,

riding motorcycles,

two Kalashnikovs on their shoulders.

A little further away,

that woman—

her hands are trembling.

Her mobile phone too.

A message arrives.

She hides it.

She buys two loaves of bread,

one paracetamol,

one coffee.

Another hot August,

a poem with cold words.

The shadow of men

on every wall.

A city where the grapes

no longer give wine,

and its daughters

no longer have the strength to stand.

They have no tears,

no stories,

as if

they have no faith anymore

in a religion where—

the sparrows

have no song.

The grapevines died.

Here,

there is no poetry.

Everything is black and white.