
Standing still
Head above the hill
Snipers are there to kill.
Ali intends to get closer
to the fence
Not knowing
Catching his death
Can happen
400 meters away
On his neck
Blood running a river
He feels dizzy
His vision fades away
To ghostly scenes in the air
Bright-lightening is his face
Dark-space are the surroundings
He smiles
It’s all gone
He imagines his mum
Can he rewind
Lean in another direction
To dodge the bullet?
It’s all gone
If he didn’t catch death
The way he catches the ball
In a street football match
If he failed to catch
He would have won
The life match
Bridged the grief patch
In his mother’s shattered heart
But it is all gone.
The land embraces
The falling body
Absorbs his tender blood
Witnesses his soul
Ascending towards
The smoke-filled sky
Whispers, “Sleep, now.
An F-16 won’t wake you
This time.”
“Ali!” shouts the crowd
The horizon echoes his name.
Note: This poem is an ode to the author’s cousin, Ali Mohammed Khfaja, who was murdered during the Great March of Return on May 14, 2018.