Forest of Noise: Poems

by Mosab Abu Toha

I dream still about my grandfather, how much I want to pick oranges with him in Yaffa. But my grandfather died, Yaffa is occupied, and oranges no longer grow in his weeping groves.

I’ve personally lost three friends to war, a city to darkness, and a language to fear.

Sir, we are not welcome anywhere. Only cemeteries don’t mind our bodies.

Now it’s 2024, and the cemetery you were buried in was razed by Israeli bulldozers and tanks. How can I find you now?

(She is dead now but parents still give names to their newborns.)

You can make tea with sage or mint. If a neighbor or a passerby smells it, an invitation to join is extended.