Echoes of the Capture Land by the Foreigners
In Syria’s heart, where shadows fall,
A nation crumbles, answering the call. The streets once paved with dreams and light, Now echo cries that pierce the night.
The winds, they carry foreign hands,From distant shores, across the sands.
Their eyes are sharp, their voices cold, Each seeking power, each seeking gold.
As thrones are shattered, empty kings, New banners rise with fluttering strings.
A chessboard carved from ancient clay, Where pawns are moved, and souls may pay.
The cries for peace, they rise and fall, But foreign footsteps answer the call.
In every alley, every street,
Their presence stirs a bitter heat.
Who owns the land when leaders fall?
Is it the people, or the thrall
Of distant powers, pulling tight,
And shaping futures in the night?
The dust will settle, and yet we know,
The storm of greed will only grow.
For in the ashes of a crown,
New voices rise to tear it down.
But will they hear the silent plea,
Of those who fought to simply be free?
Or will the world, in selfish haste.
