The real war is the aftermath:
The glisten of tears in the eyes
of a young man,
gazing at the photo of his family,
with a volcano of rage and guilt
boiling inside his chest, asking:
Why was I the only one to survive?

The real war is the aftermath:
A boy, weeping,
remembering his favorite toys,
books and photos
buried in the rubble of his house;
now living with relatives,
crammed 10 to a room.

The real war is the aftermath:
a little girl dreams fitfully,
then wakes, screaming,  
haunted by the trembling of her house,
the panicked cries of her parents,
moments before the bomb hit.

The real war is the aftermath:
The constant buzzing of drones
that never leave Gaza's cracked sky,
reminding me daily, hourly,
minute by minute
of the next war that will come.