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AyeshaPoems
Do you sense it? The little men are mixing up a stew again They are chopping their children And grinding all the toys Breaking the women and Breaking them on They will peel colours off the swings And shred them to debris Do you sense the moons all hiding Covering up their silver eyes And the night is angry It roars and stomps— A drunken frenzy; it fights Its own decayed, black being Oh, Palestine You and your fidgeting hands Fingers fight fingers And skins are ripped fingers fight fingers still— There goes the ballad you never sang There goes the ballad You sang all around There go the plastic dolls Chaste slingshots, fruits never shot down Oh, Palestine You and the lightning Stumbling through the clouds You, your tumbling birds—There goes the wind Mourning a violence unmourned There goes the silence There goes the noise There, all the paintings Eulogies etched in whispers unfathomed And there go the stones Cold and blank All plunging within the gaping mix As the *** sits quiet Upon a fire Birthed from their own white bones The little men are cooking up a stew again Sprinkled with gold, with ashen stars It boils and burps A viscous storm Never to come As the *** sits quiet all night long Oh Palestine, You, your lovers Lovers and the rest— When in the morning The flames are tired, and bones Bones no more The stew will still be stirring With winds raging on And no one will be left No one will be left With winds raging on No one will be left Oh Palestine Where did the little men go so wrong—
0
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 4:23 PM UTC
Oh Palestine
Do you sense it? The little men are mixing up a stew again They are chopping their children And grinding all the toys Breaking the women and Breaking them on They will peel colours off the swings And shred them to debris Do you sense the moons all hiding Covering up their silver eyes And the night is angry It roars and stomps— A drunken frenzy; it fights Its own decayed, black being Oh, Palestine You and your fidgeting hands Fingers fight fingers And skins are ripped fingers fight fingers still— There goes the ballad you never sang There goes the ballad You sang all around There go the plastic dolls Chaste slingshots, fruits never shot down Oh, Palestine You and the lightning Stumbling through the clouds You, your tumbling birds—There goes the wind Mourning a violence unmourned There goes the silence There goes the noise There, all the paintings Eulogies etched in whispers unfathomed And there go the stones Cold and blank All plunging within the gaping mix As the *** sits quiet Upon a fire Birthed from their own white bones The little men are cooking up a stew again Sprinkled with gold, with ashen stars It boils and burps A viscous storm Never to come As the *** sits quiet all night long Oh Palestine, You, your lovers Lovers and the rest— When in the morning The flames are tired, and bones Bones no more The stew will still be stirring With winds raging on And no one will be left No one will be left With winds raging on No one will be left Oh Palestine Where did the little men go so wrong—
The stew will still be stirring
#palestine#war#violence#storm
Ayesha
Written by
Ayesha
21/F/Pakistan
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 4:23 PM UTC
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