In Octobers,
the summer said farewell.
A shivering cold stood at the door.
A young man walked the street of Omar Al Mokhtar.
He turned toward Gaza’s sea.
The cold breezes touched his face.
In that moment, October was a poem.

In October,
I taste the freedom of movement.
I walk in a light rain on the streets of Zurich.
I see the high reach of skyscrapers.
I learn the difference between lake and sea,
not from a map in a besieged city.
Mamma Mia! I eat ravioli for the first time.
In this moment, I close my eyes and live forever.

In Octobers,
The olive trees waited for the touch of hands
to turn their harvest into a golden nectar.
Ya Zareef Altool sang while kids played,
then gathered around for oven-fresh Moshkan,
rich in olive oil and spices.
In that moment, no tree in the world was happier.

In October,
The olives die without touch.
The hands in Gaza are amputated.
The kids no longer play.
The singer is assassinated.
The golden nectar no longer flows.
The genocide turns one year old.