Artist: Arifur Rahman, Wikimedia 4.0

A deafening strike
shattered the stillness of night. 
Dust swallowed the stars 
and the sharp scent of fire replaced
the warm aroma of fresh pastries.

A boy—no older than yesterday’s dreams— 
whispers through trembling lips: 
I am only 
a child— 
but my red shoes lie buried 
beneath the broken wall. 
My schoolbag is ash 
blown into the corners 
of this silent room. 
No one tucks me in.
No one braids my curls. 
The night wraps me
in dust and sirens.

The Israeli occupier has stolen
my morning laughter,
my bed, my beautiful dolls,
my sister’s soft songs and lullabies, 
my father’s husky, comforting voice, 
and the blanket my mother stitched
with precious hands and tender care.

Here I lie— 
a name beneath the ruins. 
I wait, and wait, and wait
not to be rescued, 
but to be remembered 
by the wind 
that once carried my laughter 
through the streets of Gaza

in a neighborhood that
no longer exists.