A poem Entitled -- The Child of Gaza --

The child of Gaza,

Knoweth not whence he doth go, nor where he doth rest.

If he doth venture east, a clamorous din doth greet his ears,

And if he doth travel south, they cry "terrorist" with scorn.

If he returneth north, they slay him while he yet lives,

Till the very path of the sun burneth his face,

And the night doth not cloak him in its weary skies.

Whither shall I wander, pray tell?

Which road shall I tread?

My paths are filled with coffins,

And the earth s dust sown with dismembered limbs.

No guide have I, save to seek refuge.

My kinsman hath forsaken me,

Calling me "terrorist",

And leading me to the tyrant s way.

By the lord of the house, is there none among you who is great?


The child of Gaza knew the sun, yet saw it not.

Born in shadow and smoke that obscured the light from him...he saw it not.

He died once,

Then the tyrant doubted if the child, like the rose, might bloom a thousand times.

So he rained down upon him weapons that scorch the earth,

Thinking the earth itself had perished.

Little knew he that I live amidst the embrace of bombs.


The child of Gaza, in closed-off paths,

Paved with fire and the remains of the young,

Whose color is red,

And the stench of ruin.

O my child,

He knoweth no longer which way to go


This poem is a translation of my Arabic poem
(2-6-2024)

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