it was India all over again.

that was the very first thing that popped into my head when I stepped out the door.

and into Aleppo, Syria.

mayhem. pure mayhem.

the kind that doesn’t care if you’re from there or not,

rich or tall.

horns, blaring so loudly and often, and no way of telling where they were coming from.

step out, but look both ways, son – there are no traffic rules,

but the man selling belts will help you find your way.

even if you don’t know where that is.

past the clock tower that was wrong,

and through the souq with soaps.

in-and-out of the imagination-inspiring castle,

and onto a street,

no, not onto a street – taken there…

by a man who wouldn’t allow me to pay

‘it helps me English’ with a kind smile.

and then into the peaceful maze,

the silent abyss,

of the back streets and alleyways that ended up in houses with tall walls.

quiet, it all went quiet.

it could be because of the tall walls.

or because chaos respects family.

men, heads resting on lime green sewing machines, dreaming of something tearing.

a woman! when one was seen, could see more of you than she, in her dark and hidden attire.

boys, no more than 8 years old, would walk by with circles of bread on their heads, feet so worn and calloused they looked like hands.

I followed them secretly to their way,

finding more and smaller passageways of arch and stone.

too quiet, too quaint.

in which window is the man from Dreamworks?

‘whaddya think? looks real, huh?’

but he never showed.

heads poked out,

but none that would ruin the labyrinth.

I bought a kebab and ate it before I returned to the mayhem.

it wouldn’t have tasted as good by then.