Already over my vain brow the hair of that youth who died is greying. Of all the youngsters in Syria. My eyes shine less today. My lips have lost their right to kisses. If you still love me, for the sake stop loving; Don't cheat on me with me. Think of all the youngsters.

Fruits are given by trees that live, not the opposite,
Not by the wishful mind, which adorns itself with
Ashen flowers from the abyss within.
How many kingdoms in minds and in things
Your imagination has carved !
That many you've lost, pre-dethroned,
Without ever having them.
Against great opposition you cannot create
More than doomed intentions !
Abdicate and be
King of yourself...