It is the end of the season,
but it seems very warm outside.
People wear T-shirts and shorts,
while I am under three blankets and more.

My feet and hands iced,
just like the iced hearts and faces of those,
seeing civilian homes demolished,
kids having funerals at an early age,
fetuses dying inside their mothers’ wombs.

Just like the silenced world,
feigning pity and love,
while there is no love,
amid this chaos and strife,
of the broken crying families,
and their unspoken tragedies.

Just like the moonless cold nights,
the people of Gaza can’t sleep at,
and like the empty streets,
having no lights,
having no laughs or smiles,
but the ghosts of the war.

Just like the cold-blooded murderers,
bombing and shelling everywhere,
with no mercy,
with no love,
with no peace,
heartlessly,
with their heavy weapons.

Just like those spreading fear and horror,
terrorizing women and kids,
snatching their joy,
childhood,
womanhood,
and their life.

Mohammed Arafat
05-05-2019

I am from a place,
where violence takes place,
by outsiders and insiders.
I oppose horror
terror,
melancholy,
and every fear chasing me.
I barely can, though.

In my thoughts, however,
I flee the darkness,
the hate and the arrogance.
I run off the imposed siege along with my tears,
with my good and bad memories,
with my stolen childhood,
and my ruined adulthood
with my beating heart full of holes.

Into the farthest city, I want to descend,
like a prophet, an angel or a human.
I just want to descend anyways,
into Jerusalem, the city of peace,
and righteous.

I walk through the lanes of its old town,
among the stalls of its old markets,
built of limestone.

With my wide-open eyes,
I mediate the high woody gates,
closed for hundreds of years,
I stare at its historic walls,
several armies from different epochs,
tied their mares to, across old ages.

I gape at the Holy Sepulcher Church,
the Omar Mosque located opposite it,
and Al-Buraq Wall.
I sense the worshipers all around,
praying and thanking God,
for the peace, he gives them, daily.

I get into the deep alleyways,
full of people with and without Kofeyyas.
I look at the golden Dome of the Rock,
and the Al-Aqsa Mosque,
from outside, insanely.

I take off my plastic slippers at the entrance,
after checking all details around with my five senses.
Getting ready to pray too, I enter the holy mosque.
I raise my hands,
kneel,
and pray,
for peace and for love,
in Jerusalem,
and around Jerusalem.

Mohammed Arafat
04-05-2019

Every morning I get up not finding you around,
or me around you.
‘Where are you?’ I whisper to myself like talking to you,
mindlessly.

A thousand men or more cannot love you more than I do,
as I grow restless, longing for your company.
I bless the rains down in your farms,
the oil squeezed from your ****** olives of the East,
the grapes and the citrus fruits of your Western fields.
I praise the soil under your blossomed orange trees in April,
and the green pasture grass dairy goats raised by.
I sanctify your sand thousands of knights walked on repeatedly,
throughout old and modern ages,
not forgetting the Dead Sea livening my five senses,
and the Dome of the Rock of your Capital.

I wrap myself with the chequered black and white Kofeyyah,
walking everyday being proud,
murmuring and talking to mysefl,
“nothing can drag me away from you, Palestine!”

Mohammed Arafat
02-05-2019

They
They born black,
They get attacked,

Not their fault,
It’s the assault,

Not their race,
Or their place,

It is the heart,
Tearing us apart,

They are human,
Good man and woman.

They are not white,
But having light,

And having right,
Not to have fright.

Being called salve,
They already forgave,

They go to school,
They are cool,

Some join universities,
Others have diversities,

Some become teachers,
With different features,

They are nurses,
They write verses,

They sing jazz,
But.. Whereas,

They treated badly,
And it’s sadly,

Making me write,
For their right,

That they need unity,
Within the community,


Mohammed Arafat
30-04-2019

When I was a young boy,
I didn't know what regimes meant.
Cared about my toys only,
I busied myself playing.
Sometimes, my dad listened to news on his antique radio.
I shared listening as well not because I loved news,
but because I loved my dad.

It was my first time hearing them.
I heard them talking about democracy,
freedom of speech,
human rights,
men rights,
and women rights.
I believed them,
and continued my days and years,
waiting...
I lived my life,
believing I would have what they talked about.

I look around now though,
finding the opposite,
after dozens of years.
I hear them over and over again.
They say the same rhythm every time.
They lie the same lies forcing us to believe them.
Yet, I didn’t hear their murmurs behind the closed doors.
I wish I could ages ago.

Mohammed Arafat
24-04-2019

Our first day together,
wasn’t a normal date like lovers’.
I was happy to be with you,
and to be yours.
I knew nothing.
I saw nothing,
but I felt the beats of your heart,
against mine,
when you hugged me.

I didn’t hear anything,
but I heard you praying to God,
that I never become intractable,
and to be someone who will always love you.

You were always there for me.
I was selfish, and moody but in love with you.
I some days hurt you,
and you healed me.
I sometimes ruined your days,
and you fixed mine.

Days and nights go by pretty too fast,
and I didn’t forget your voice or how you look.
Holding your photo while in bed at present,
I just wish the day comes soon, and it will come,
so I can be on my knees beside your knees,
kissing your blessing hands,
just like how you rocked my cradle at night for years and years,
while singing and praying for me.
My mother, Endlessly, unhesitantly and immortally I say it, and will always do,
I love you today and everyday.

Mohammed Arafat
17-04-2019

It is a rainy night,
with the dark clouds covering the moon.
The stars fall,
so do the rest of the unknown lights in the sky.
Rings of the distant churches’ bells heard.
Owls, bats, black vultures sound,
so do the hungry wolves around the lightless downtown.

A barefoot little girl,
with unironed clothes for weeks,
beside a bakery, sits.
Her long hair untied and wetted from rain.
She awaits for the dawn,
flipping through her simple wishes like a book,
under the lightening and the thunders.
But it needs hours and hours to arrive.

Families leave the theatre in front of her,
happy and smiling.
They just finished watching a humanitarian film.
Their cars’ lights reflect in her eyes full of tears,
which are not dried yet until the dawn appears.

Stores closed all around her.
Passersby look at her and deny.
Kids looking through the car windows,
ask their parents about her.
They, too, deny so their kids do not have nightmares while asleep.

The girl just awaits the dawn,
having few dreams, hopes and some pain.
She awaits the dawn,
hopefully, her dead parents appear, again!

Mohammed Arafat
06-04-2019