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No need for radio: We are the news.
Now I’m thirty and whenever I look at faces around me, old or young, on each forehead I read: “If you live in Gaza, you die several times.”
a stone near a cemetery suggests why give birth to children at all
where to head next: a graveyard, a hospital, a nightmare.
Rain waters the stories that sleep on the old, tiled floor.
Even your shadow will abandon you when there is no light.
Soon, Palestine will search for us, for our whispers, for our footsteps, our fading pictures fallen off blown-up walls.
Will my bones find yours after I die?
Even our souls, they get stuck under the rubble for weeks.
and hold on tight / to whatever number there was / on the cake / from the last birthday.
You are alive for a moment, when living people run after you.
soon. I wish my words would turn into clouds that could protect you and all our neighbors and friends from the bombs.
and for humanity in your razed graveyards.
