Forest of Noise: Poems

by Mosab Abu Toha

I’ve personally lost three friends to war, a city to darkness, and a language to fear. This was not easy to survive, but survival proved necessary to master.

Soon, Palestine will search for us, for our whispers, for our footsteps, our fading pictures fallen off blown-up walls.

In Gaza, our bodies and rooms get crushed. Nothing remains for the soul. Even our souls, they get stuck under the rubble for weeks.

This is not a poem. This is a grave, not beneath the soil of Homeland, but above a flat, light white rag of paper.