They mourn you in Damascus,
as you speak to me over the phone.
You move beneath the wind,
and your words now
glow with the colours of your throne.
In your death
you have finally found
the voice that eluded you here –
Remind him
to lock his door,
always carry an umbrella,
never miss a class.
Accept less,
and yearn for more.
Take a bath daily,
and never forget
that he is the son I adore.
Tell him next month
it will be time to cut his hair,
his walls will need to be cleaned,
and his pillow will give birth to a prayer.
Someone will arrive suddenly,
a frame for his painting,
a sea for his shore.
And I will watch him become
the prince of my eyes,
over and beyond,
after and before.
And tell him,
tell him I know about the pain,
the expanding void,
the thrill a storm feels
when it turns against its rain.
Sometimes,
sometimes, my son, we must depart
to break the fall
of a spiralling heart.