Basman Derawi | 18-05-2017
He sits on my shoulders,
with his heavy bag on my back.
I am sweating, tired,
my mouth dry.
He has a water bottle in his hand.
But he offers only a piece of dry cake.
I refuse it.
My back hurts.
Why won’t he look me in the eye?
This dirt road seems endless.
I wonder what my freedom will cost.
He clutches the water,
while I carry him,
his heavy bag
and his guilt.
Author's note: Poetry is mainly images to me, and
in my mind, the Israeli control of our lives is like
being forced to carry our oppressors on our backs.
Posted: May 9, 2017
Mentor: Kevin Hadduck