The sun rises over Gaza,
piercing another suffocating night,
after the atrocities of an endless siege.
It spills light softly across faces
hollowed by grief.

Amid the ruins, laughter
blooms like flowers.
The last sky of Gaza, a soundscape
of birdsong and warplanes.
A cup of coffee resists, persists,
reclaims morning from the
grasp of an occupied night.

Our dreams are buried beneath rubble.
Our hands are stained with charred wood.
Blood mingles with flour, flavors our bread,
a bitter reminder of our fight for survival.

You who turn away,
who refuse to see —
See the damage in the streets,
the faces weathered by hardship,
etched into by untellable stories.
Look into our eyes — yes, look deeply,
and know us not as strangers.
See the blood, mingled with tears,
as it streams down our cheeks.
Smell the death that clings to the air,
drowning out everything else.
You have seen all that and yet
you pretend otherwise.
You can no longer pretend.
You can no longer look away.

We see every shade of death,
we smell its penetrating scent,
we clearly memorize its appearance.
We hear its constant whisper,
we witness it devour.

Yet still we breathe,
still, still endure, and
cling to a flicker of life
in a shattered city.