Assad Library.. Assad Park.. Assad Dam.. Assad Hospital.. Assad Lake.. Assad Airport.. Assad City.. Assad Syria.. Assad Army.. Assad University.. Even the currency has a picture of Assad on it.. *May God have mercy on our poet Nizar Qabbani who used to hide and mean what he said*!!!
*This country is a furnished apartment*!!
This country is a furnished apartment, owned by a person called Antarah.
He stays drunk all night at her door, and collects rent from her residents.
He asks to marry its women, and shoots at the trees.
And the children... and the eyes... and the breasts... and the fragrant braids...
This whole country is a personal farm for Antarah.
Its sky, its air, its women, its green fields.
All the buildings here are where Antarah lives.
All the windows have a picture of Antarah.
All the squares here bear the name of Antarah.
Antarah lives in our clothes... in the loaf of bread...
In the cola bottle, and in our dying dreams..
A deserted deserted city..
There is not a mouse, an ant, a stream, or a tree left in it.
Nothing in it amazes tourists except the official approved image.
To General Antarah..
In the lettuce and watermelon carts..
On buses, at the train station, at airport customs...
On postage stamps, on football fields, in pizza restaurants...
And in all categories of counterfeit currency..
In the living room.. in the bathroom.. in the toilet..
On his happy birthday,
In his lofty, extravagant, walled palaces...
There is nothing new in the life of this colonial city.
Our sadness is repeated, our death is repeated, and the flavor of coffee on our lips is repeated.
Since we were born, we have been trapped in a round bottle of culture...
Since we entered school, we have only studied one autobiography.
Tell us about Antarah's muscles..
And the generosity of Antarah... and the miracles of Antarah...
In every cinema, we see nothing but a boring Arabic film in which Antarah plays...
Nothing - on the morning radio - we care about..
The first piece of news in it is about Antarah.
The last news in it is news about Antarah.
Nothing - in the second program - except:
Playing the qanun - from the works of Antarah.
And an oil painting of Antarah’s scribbles.
A bouquet of the worst poetry in the voice of Antarah.
This is a country where intellectuals give their voice.
To the master of intellectuals, Antarah..
They beautify his ugliness, chronicle his era, and spread his thought.
And they beat the drum in his victorious wars.
There is no star on TV except Antarah.
With his graceful body, or his expressive laugh..
One day dressed as a duke or a prince... one day dressed as a poor toiler...
One day on a helicopter... one day on a Russian tank...
One day on his track..
One day on our broken ribs..
No one dares to say "No" to General Antarah.
No one dares to ask the scholars in Medina about Antarah’s ruling.
The options here are limited, between going to prison or going to the graveyard.
Nothing in the city of 150 million coffins except...
Reciting the Quran, the big tent, and the awaited funerals..
Nothing, except a man selling - in a bag - tickets to enter the grave,
His name is Antarah.
Antara Al-Absi.. He does not leave us for a single minute..
Sometimes he eats our food... and sometimes he drinks our drink...
Sometimes he sneaks into our bed... and sometimes he visits us armed...
To collect the rent for our rented country 
A sarcastic short poem by the great Syrian poet "Nizar Qabbani" It's an older poem, so I'm not sure if he specifically meant the defunct Bashar Assad, his late father, or most Arab regimes, even in our actual times, many international super powers, including Russia and America, But surely very appropriate for this time after the demise of the last Assad's regime, and the ascendence of many authoritarians like him all over. Originally in Arabic, translated by Google and me, to be shared by my good readers. My many thanks to all.
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