Before I was born, the city was golden
Shining in the fading sunlight
Palms and Aleppo pine lined the streets
While people pedaled by
Now the singed remains of my city are all that remain
I hear stories of the good times
The memories made in a world that no longer exists
The stories serve as a nightmarish before and after
Reminding me of what is lost and will never be the same
--inspired by The New York Times travel piece, Postcard From My Past: Crossing Into Syria
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