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—