Suzanne Ibrahim (Syria/Sweden) is a poet and freelance journalist. In 2018 in wake of having been threatened and attacked by both the regime and the rebels because of her texts she left Syria and arrived in Östersund, Sweden where she is now living as a guest writer.








The cold has come

I am going to wear

Your heart hanging in my closet

The heart, which you left with me

One winter.




The trees have infected me

Every time an ax approaches

I give it its handle.




Every time the tree hears a violin

Its pruned trunk says with love:

The daughter takes good care of her mother.




On a bench in the park

I wanted to sit

I did not find the trees I used to see!

At the far end

A man gathered the trees and the benches

Put them in his pockets

And went towards the sea.




Every fall

The wind carries her large basket

It goes around the trees

Collecting their yellow laundry

Promises to bring it back green.

How can the wind remember the address of every tree?

And how many leaves belong to it?




A core of a ripe fruit

Deceives the tree

Falls into another life.




In collusion between the thunderbolt and the forest

The trees burned their secret archive.




If I cut the darkness,

What kind of blood would flow?

If you cut deep enough

The light will flow.








وَقَد جاءَ البردُ

سأرتدي قلبكَ المعلّقَ في خزانتي

ذاكَ الذي نَسيتَهُ عندي

ذاتَ شتاءٍ.




مُصابةٌ أنا بالأشجارِ

كلّما دنتْ فأسٌ

منحْتُها يدَهَا.




كلّما سمعتِ الشّجرةُ موسيقا الكَمانِ

بكى جذعُها المقطوعُ حناناً:

لقد برّتِ البنتُ بأمّها.




على مقعدٍ في الحديقةِ العامّةِ

أردتُ الجلوسَ

لمْ أجدِ الأشجارَ التي اعتدْتُ رؤيتَها.

في الطَّرَفِ البعيدِ رجلٌ

حزمَ الأشجارَ والمقاعدَ

دسّها في جيوبِهِ


ى صوبَ البحرِ.





كلَّ خريفٍ

تَحملُ الريحُ سلَّتَها الكبيرةَ

تدورُ على ربّاتِ الأشجارِ

تجمعُ غسيلَهنَّ الأصفرَ

وتعِدُ بإعادتهِ أخضرَ!

هل تذكرُ الرّيحُ

عناوينَ كلِّ شجرةٍ

وعددَ أوراقِها؟




بذرةُ فاكهةٍ ناضجةٍ تخدعُ الشجرةَ


تسقطُ في حياةٍ أخرى.



بتواطؤ مُتعمَّدٍ بينَ الصاعقةِ والغابةِ

أحرقَتِ الأشجارُ ملفّاتِها السّرّيّةَ.




إِنْ جرحتُ العتمةَ فأيُّ دمٍ يسيلُ؟

إِنْ جَرحتِها بعمقٍ كافٍ

سوفَ يسيلُ الضوءُ