World, hear my confession, hear my plight:
Forty angels lost, my kin, my own.
Your songs offer no respite.
My song: a haunting moan.

Do I still live, if they lie slain?
Time stands still, their absence near.
What solace, what refuge, what gain
have I, when they depart, they disappear?

Mother Palestine whispers, “Write! Proclaim!”
But how can I, when my pen lies shattered, broken?
“Then shout, then scream, and stake your claim!
In the desolate void, let truth be spoken!”

Mother’s breath is in my ear. “I hear, I push you forth.
Do not falter, Ibrahim, in this quest!”
Yet alone, bereft of words,
I’m seeking solace, seeking rest.

Charge me with life, world, though my despair is firm.
In absence of my kin, I’m but a shell.
World, heed my plea, let truth affirm:
The train of death for Palestinians tolls its knell.

My kin have purchased tickets with their blood,
while smiles adorn their faces, dread be damned.
But still I stand between realms, unseen, unheard,
as sunlight fades and darkness consumes the land.

Yes, I stand separate, unseen, unheard,
From Aida, Loai, Mohammed, Mishal, Nahda, and their sons in mournful score.
While their fate falls on ears inert,
for in this world, death reigns evermore.

The train of death pulls strong,
yet my ticket it declines, defies.
I shout, “My family! I belong!”
Still, death rejects me of its ties.

So I lament. Why am I not with them?
Why am I spared death’s cruel grasp?
I resign, I surrender — and — I condemn.
in this realm, it is my soul’s last gasp.