In Gaza’s dust, where dreams are starved and torn,
The children dig for crumbs the world has sworn.

No grain of wheat, no olive branch remains,
Just broken backs and bags of ghostly grains.

Their hands are pale, yet burn with silent might,
While hope turns ash beneath the vulture’s flight.

Each sack they fill is filled with grief and sand,
A war-born harvest on a haunted land.

The smoke of bread becomes their daily breath,
Each bite a battle at the edge of death.

Mothers with arms like branches stripped of fruit
Rock babes to sleep with silence as their lute.

Where once the jasmine climbed and minarets sang,
Now rubble speaks, and hunger’s hammers clang.

Yet still they kneel to scoop what life they can,
Defying siege with dignity and plan.

What state allows a child to beg for wheat?
What soul stays mute as vultures circle meat?

But Gaza, draped in dust and ancient grace,
Still plants its prayers in that forsaken place.

For though the world may look and turn away,
Their roots of hope will bloom some brighter day.