Trying to say
what “was” and “is” is so hard.
Trying to touch the pain inside
while you are fumbling with the hurt.

I offer my past and present to you
to make fluency of silence
because I must tell
and you must know.

Can you picture
how I spent my mornings?
The sounds of a chirping bird woke me
and I sang with him cheerfully.

Now there are no sounds
except the sounds of death —
mothers’ screams and exploding
missiles, bombs, and shells.

Let me draw the fresh breeze —
scented roses, daisies.
Now all I breathe is the smell
of gunpowder, blood, and bodies.

I will draw my nights for you
as my head touched the pillow.
Now the ground is my bed
and the sky is my blanket.

I am watching a terrible movie,
a movie that never ends.
Dead bodies everywhere,
orphans and widows.

Can you imagine
that this home is Gaza?