I speak Arabic & English—but
I don’t know in which one my Fate is written …
In Gaza, Rising in the morning,
Trying to Survive another day—
Is coming back from the Dead.
I ask Death if it could Wait until
I Finish writing my New Poem—
Borders are invented lines: drawn with Ash
On maps and sewn into the ground by Bullets.
The drone’s buzzing, the roar of an f-16,
The screams of bombs falling on Houses,
On Fields, on Bodies, of rockets flying away:
Rid my ear canal of them all!
Before my long Travel, I pack my bags—
Stuff them with Sand from our land, Scents from
My Mother’s Kitchen and sounds of Birds in morning.
What is Home? The shade of Trees on my way
To school before they were uprooted.
I can see the Stars through
A bullet hole in the ceiling—
Do not be surprised to see a Rose
Shoulder up among the ruins of a
House: this is how we Survive.
Lines from Mosab Abu Toha