Beat on

Thousands mourned,
Over his corpse at Maghrib,
The morning was silent,
Who noticed the sun rise that day?
It rained,
And you knew my mother,
Knew her name meant rainfall,
So though I was not there,
I was close enough,
For my spirit to make home,
In Jabaliya.

You weaved Falasteen,
Into our hearts,
Like the threads of my Keffeyah,
Bringing Hebron to our doorstep.
Wearing the scars of a massacre,
You still spoke of peace,
Words left your lips,
Like tears falling from olive branch,
My hands outstretched caught words,
That still echo within me.

The bullet that pierced your chest,
Turned borders to dust,
When I speak to your mother,
Translation fails us,
Because tears do not fall,
In English or Arabic,
Hearts like ours will always,
Meet in battlefields,
I hope that she still hears,
The song of your soul,
Echoing from somewhere within me,
Because all that you gave,
Took root here.

And one day I will search for my verse,
On the walls of a refugee camp,
Where your childhood,
Still echoes,
From the rubble,
And because she did not forget,
I will write back,
Tracing your words,
Across falling walls,
Because you still teach me,
What it means,
To build.

The irreversible effect,
Of a Palestinian heart,
Meeting a tyrants bullet,
Is that,
It beats on.

For a soul I will never forget,
A presence that brought courage to the surface.
We pray you reach the highest heavens,
Insha’Allah.

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