The dead

Close the store fronts and add a poster to the ones fading
out of our sight, the youth will remain young
mothers will continue to carry their melancholic anger
like a badge stitched on the chest, over the heart
just where the youth should have been still standing
brothers will carry a different anger
unwashed shirts, stained with the smell of those gone
players of football in the usual streets, dreamers under the windows
loving quickly and realizing slowly, how it ends
the sister will stitch together poetry, a word that binds another
with gold thread malak, the royal used in weddings and for kings
the land, where they had fallen sprouts flowers
in winter twigs to keep warmth, in spring poppies for blood
in summer jasmine permeating the night and in fall cyclamen the flower of death and glory.