I would never have thought / to write an ode to Ouda’s vocal cords / but here I am searching for words.

Tell them / Tell them / we are more than numbers / more than silent echoes / in a ledger of loss

Tell her she was the light of my eyes / The star that guided my nights.

The sparkle now is a choke in my throat. Words stick inside it and fight. Should they tell the truth?

O Gaza, thou art sick. / The visible worm that dares / to come in the raging storm …

There is the green of the trees / While a child bleeds on the street.

In a warless land a budding student / is honored today. His first epic poem / has won.

My great-great -grandfather, / times 100, / lived in London once, / he and his family.

A child is born / and comes to his life / somewhere in Gaza.

I’m trying my hardest to keep sane: / When I see a mother’s pale face, / the one that lost its radiance after the war began

A child dies, western media reports. / A half piece of his favorite candy saved / in the jar will never be eaten.

World, hear my confession, hear my plight: / Forty angels lost, my kin, my own.