Gaza's Mothers
In Gaza, the mothers don’t sleep, waiting in darkness, listening to the sky that’s been raining death -- nothing to inspire a fairy-tale to lull their children to sleep, their ears sharpened to the slightest noise, attuned to the whir of Israeli drones, incessantly circling above.
Every day they are ambushed by grief.
They sleep close to their traumatized children, comforting them like an iron shield, turning their bodies into pillars of safety, however fragile,
not knowing if they’ll wake up in heaven or bomb craters.
Allah is great, we shall survive another day.
There are days when they hope for a respite, and then suddenly,
without a warning, bang their child is ripped from their arms, the gloom of death rope around them.
Their grief exceeds all troubles.
Their faith thrives in their misery.
We cannot be in more extremities than them, mortifying the Earth.
Great mothers of Palestine. Death cannot do what you would not submit to.
What noble discourse these heroines afford.
Their spirit so strongly moves me.
The veil of moonless night is ashamed of what tears they shed.
Drought from tears they know not,
nor the arid air of disbelief in their cause,
to live free, a great refusal of the bondages, no matter how their numbers
add to cluster of dead and disappeared every day,
homage to the majesty of a collective will.
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