Under dangling crystal balls,
Which glitter in the light,
My red-wine-goblet is offering me:
Cool shelters of relief.
Every sip is perfect,
Blending with the eloquent taste
Of highest grapes.

Matching the evening theme,
Champagne, other coloured drinks,
Are gladdening one and all.
The restaurant is thronging with people.
Happy people.
Talkative people.
Noisy people.

Directly in front of me,
A persistent newspaper
Cuts like knives through my mood.
It is sweet Syria burning!
Burning like fire!
It is sweet Syria’s turn,
To keep dying with useless conjectures.

My conscience pertains concerns
By remaining up to date:
With the pandemonium of human wailing,
In Syria.
I know how war has erupted
In the Syrian streets,
And how against the code, it drags on.

My conscience pays its share
By reading the newspaper.
The National reports,
‘Both sides in Syria guilty of crimes.
But government troops to blame most.
Witnesses and victims tell of killings, kidnapping
And the torture of children as young as 10.’

Under dangling crystal balls
Which glitter in the light,
Now my red-wine-goblet is sorrow-filled.
Around me, there is cheerful commotion,
Cutting like knives through my mood.
It is sweet Syria burning!
Burning like fire!

Geeta Chhabra