Between blood stained keffeyahs,
And the lacerated muscle of stone pelting arms,
Between the tear gas and the olive tree,
There are strong roots spreading across,
Lighting the depths of this grief with hope.
This is the place where,
War drums pound against chests,
And heartbeats carry the pain,
Of entire nations within them.
This is where revolution is born.
A land where children were torn from wombs,
And sprawled dead across checkpoints,
Where white phosphorous burnt babies to the bone,
But still a place where..
Our women raise the flags of the revolution,
On the outskirts of the villages of Gaza.
Because encrypted in their blood stained keffeyahs,
And the roots of olive trees that hold bodies,
That once blessed their wombs with their presence,
You can taste it in the air,
The passion pulsating through this nation,
Readying itself to stand once again.
But in the folds of the cerebral cortex,
Still writhing in the pain of remembrance,
Of massacres & bloodshed,
Is a child – struggling to breathe
His screams do not leave his throat,
They escape his pain ridden soul,
Desperately searching the embrace,
Of something that might just bring,
An ounce of relief.
And he writes words,
Whispers them across the terrain of revolution,
So they reach hearts who read,
In voices so different to his,
But they feel this too.
Rest your aching soul,
Against the bloodstained land,
That raises your children tonight,
In the morning we will raise fists,
To the rhythm of revolution,