Anonymous

They passed it down,

from Jaffa to Damascus,

from Beirut to Homs—

a rusted key, a torn deed,

a dream clenched in trembling hands.

They thought exile would quiet us,

that time would wash our names away.

But how do you forget

when your mother still cries in the language of loss,

when your father still spits out the names of stolen streets,

when your grandmother still whispers, one day?

We were born with grief in our blood,

raised on lullabies of burning cities,

on stories of houses we’ve never touched,

land we’ve never held,

doors we’ve never opened—

but still, we carry the key.

They turned Syria into dust,

turned Palestine into a prison,

turned Lebanon into a refuge with no peace,

turned our people into numbers,

into bodies swallowed by the sea,

into tents flapping like torn flags.

But ghosts don’t carry keys.

Ghosts don’t trace maps into their children’s palms,

don’t press their feet into the earth and say,

this is mine.

We are not ghosts.

One day, the lock will remember,

the door will sigh open,

and the key will turn.

Not as a memory,

but as return.