Syrian Winter

Upon seeing a Reuters photograph of a bombed-out, devastated city in northern Iraq or Syria, I recalled articles about the home-grown youth of western cities, sporting their jihadi cool in what they wore and the way they spoke. These same misguided youth became the fodder of war in the far-flung strongholds of fledgling caliphates. “This is their last stand. They all came to die” was the photo’s caption. All wars have their lions and lambs, and the greedy grow ever richer. ‘Syrian Winter’ is an anti-war song.
Syrian Winter
Snipers above me, tunnels below
On the battle-scarred streets, there’s nowhere to go
Running on empty, no tears to cry
This is our last stand, we all came to die
 That’s the rule – Battle is cruel – But I’m jihadi cool
I learned from my bedroom, the power of nasheed
New Nike trainers with shalwar and kameeze
A cool black standard to sign our new ways
Our own Armageddon, the whole world ablaze
That’s the rule – Struggle is cruel – But I’m jihadi cool
No water, no fire, no food for the day
A handful of bullets and a busted AK
No plan, no comfort, no brother besid
No path to glory, no jihadi bride
I’m a fool – Battle is cruel – No jihadi cool

A Syrian winter, a dark frozen pool
We’re lambs to the slaughter, jihadi fools
Mama I’m bleeding, I’ve no one to hold
Fallen from grace, foolhardy and cold

That’s the rule – Battle is cruel – No jihadi cool

Life is a thread on an old wooden spool
Spinning and twisted, hardened and cruel
Abandoned and desperate, empty within
Standing on a rooftop, going with the wind

I’m a fool – Battle is cruel – No jihadi cool