Lion in a Coma

Lion in a coma, lion in a coma
Who wants to smell the fine aroma

Animal Collective

I want to smell the fine aroma

The fine aroma of Leila’s leisurely cigarettes

Not the way she smokes now.

The revolting scent of a hated habit, yearn for most.

As her homeland crumbles, Dunhill Switch to Captain Black she wishes to relax

Yet her pulmonary veins continue to throb, cinnamon sears with every pulse

Destroying her lungs the way the Lions have destroyed everything

Everything.

From her sister’s voice box, bedridden not only by a critical error but by years of rooted terror

That not only choke the throats of my paralyzed Teta but the throats of every Syrian woman, man, child.

“Don’t talk about such things on the phone ya Asma’a”

Don’t talk.

Rip your throat box out before the calamity of the consequences of free speech impend on you

Like they impended on your father

Like they impended on your mother

How can they not see?

You cannot impend upon bravery.

How can you not see?

The Lions will not destroy their bravery.

Mount Vesuvius is no longer dormant

Ashes of withering sorrow knotted in our knuckles

Pompeii hunters seek the informant.

Pointed bullets to the Lion’s den, bullet through his head,

Silence the chuckles.

Lion in a coma, lion in a coma

Freedom is my fine aroma

-Asma Alabed

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