My love, tell me why

you will not speak of

the dead brown children 

in Gaza tonight  

Do you, not mourn me 

As I wade through,

The lost words of all 

my slaughtered poets

Do you, not dream of 

Flour bags, drenched in blood

Bombed cities, in your lungs 

Clear skies, raining ash

Your leaders, stagnant words 

Your friend’s, silences

My Jaan, will you not 

weep with me

As all our, ancient towns 

And once our, Father’s homes 

are exiled, to the wind

and scattered, with the dust

Do you, not feel that 

All the water 

In this broken world, 

Will not wash away 

the wounds of our

Butchered children 

Tell me now, past love

how many,

weeping Hind’s, will it take

Till you, dream of 

Flour bags, drenched in blood

Bombed cities, in your lungs 

Clear skies, raining ash 

Our leaders, stagnant words 

Our friend’s, blind eye

Did you hear, lost friend 

Bisan, flew a kite

in Palestine today 

Do you think, that the 

missing kites of our

Fallen children,

Will make their way

 to our shores, one day 

My love, I fear that

We have too much blood 

on our hands today that

we can not wash away  

And all our, unsaid words

and all our, silences  

Drenched those flour bags

in Gaza, today 

*Hind Rajab: Hind Rajab was a five-year-old Palestinian girl from the Tel al-Hawa neighbourhood in Gaza City who was killed by the Israeli military, after being the sole survivor of Israeli tank fire on the vehicle she fled in with six relatives