I look at the world from the sky. It is still mad.
I died in the war and my home is still sore.
Darkness. They have even killed the light.
But I can see my mom is crying.

In a minute my life was gone;
There is no truth under the sun
And I see my killer holding his gun.

Note from the project director: When I first read this poem, I knew sort of instinctively that by “home” Basman meant Gaza, and my heart sort of stopped on the last line. I asked Basman if fears of war haunt him all the time, and he responded: “Yes, I think of war. I think of losing someone or everyone, I think of dying slowly. But most of all, I am afraid of my life staying the same, which is also a form of death.”