the olive trees have died
beneath them lie
olives and the children of falestine
smoke chokes the lungs
that stopped struggling
for breadth
and
the
air
licks fear off their face
planting smiles
those
seeds of abundance
can we kiss
our loved ones enough
hold them long enough?
a stone for each of you
i shall gather and throw
when you cannot anymore~
last night at 3 am
i choked on my own breath;
there was smoke and a constant drone
hovering above
tried to leave
my feet were not there
and my face was a hole
from the bombing of 79 days (the days will have increased as you read this)
i tried to drink some water
find dangling fingers stuck to bits of bone
there is a drop at the bottom of the bottle
ill keep it for the children.
the stench of disbelief fills the sky
the moon cries on my shoulder
and oceans cry in their own realms
when ceasefire comes
it will be meaningless
a mockery of lives wasted
time wasted
wasted hours
calculated minutes of strategic genocide
apathy fills the world~
words are crutches
for maimed poets
apologies are stuck in our throats
our pens tremble
everything seems to defy what we owe you falestine:
we owe our lives
we sit in our warm homes and watch you die
and all you have are stones
i’m gathering stones for when you are gone I will
throw them for you
my nightmares are filled with your lives
your strength, your emaan
clinging to you ,clinging to me
when i open my mouth
a scream tries to escape
it’s unable to leave my parched throat
I succumb to my helplessness.
i wish not to be forgiven for letting you down
so that you are never forgotten
love is a mother’s kiss
caressing the bloody forehead
of her child-
for every poem i write
a rocket is sent
shall i then stop writing poems?
falestine is a maimed son
a dying woman
a trauma unworthy
of being talked about~
the world is spinning-
i pause and inhale
the almost winter is mixed
with your pain
and i don’t know
how to cope-
i’m punctuating my poem today (i don’t otherwise)
i need to pause and rest
the world is a crater in my being
a hole in the chest
where missiles have been blowing up
boom
blast
one shockwave after another-
hate brings temples down,
burns churches and makes a masjid look like an accomplice-
who puts ideas in your poetic mind?
who makes your pen reek of blood and not ink?
beckett was right
so was eliot
even bahadur shah zafr-
time is striking is down and we have been lied to;
there are no lines to be drawn
nor lives to be lived
we are here to endure
waiting for godot
falestine is the place where language has broken down
there is no vocabulary left
meanings we attached to words
have been sniper targetted
bombarded to rubble
underneath which lies a gasping child
a listless mother
without words
we need a new vocabulary for maimed bodies
shrieking mouths
shocked lives
staring at the world
at humanity for it’s
inadequacy
