My country …. my land …. my city …
Yes, this steadfast city that revolted against the Assad. I chanted loudly, we do not want the butcher’s rule.
I have been besieged I have tortured I have tasted the varieties of torment I do not cry on its walls, but its walls are crying over us.That its buildings, walls and bishop cry alone today.
Her people have suffered what they have suffered and now no one.
There is no longer a cry There is no longer a voice There is no sound Any voices no longer hear a shell And no roar of a warplane Yes No more explosions Only calm After the death of this city No longer wants the butcher Bombardment has died Yes Yes I have stepped up to the sky with her sons who killers Or ride with them the buses with their children who were abandoned, yes, the body of the Spirit died.
Her soul was separated with her children …
There was no stone or tree standing there did not stay where the bird breathes has suffocated ….. Kimkawi butcher
I have seen this city all kinds of torment before you die.
We bid farewell to its walls, roads, streets and streets.
This pure wealth in which our friends were buried and our love and uncle defend this city.
The sky of this city, which was not long filled with planes that receive lava and explosives, which was most often illuminated by nalmas and burning phosphorus.
But it was always open to send out the calls of the oppressed to the Creator of mankind.
Deposits what remains of them or what remains.
It is a country other than all of this country has breathed freedom, but there is fear of sarin and poisoned ……..
My town Douma in Eastern Ghouta