Valiant Scribe
A literary hub giving voice to the voiceless by retelling the human experience

I am expatriate, my motherland, the one that birthed and then betrayed me, no longer my home. No songs of redemption, no longer

My home in Syria, loud bangs I hear, my hands on my ears, mama say bombs fall from the sky, she grab me down the stairs like she is the wind

And in the undisturbed brick and limestone, everything quietly waiting for the nocturnal, the gutters to run clear,

The neurotic phrasing of the African dreamers, Flies up to the sky And suddenly intertwines, Like the flight of swallows, Watching from...

Avoid the trap Of vengeance Of turning on us When Terrorists massacre kids We ran away from men who plant bombs, Wield guns - demand...

“Honey,” I announced, “we’re selling the house.” My spouse was flabbergasted – until I explained. I had just opened an envelope...