While Praying, Hymns for Jerusalem

Like the rest of worshippers,
I pray to God,
every morning,
every noon,
and every evening.

On a prayer rug made in Jerusalem,
I kneel in passion,
like nobody else does,
giving up my pride,
crying while talking to God,
while connecting to him,
while doing my best,
so he can accept my prayers,
in this world full of oppression,
arrogance,
and injustice.

I remember the old city,
When looking at the prayer rug.
I can imagine every corner it has,
and every alley.
As if in front of me,
I see prayers worshipping the same God I worship,
but with different hearts,
hardened and softened.

I am still weeping.
None is around me to wipe my tears.
I am all alone,
but with my God,
talking to him,
and crying while bowing down to him,
Not because I am scared of him.
no!
He isn’t scary.
But because I am honoured to talk to him.
He is merciful.

I prostrate,
with seven of my bones touching the ground,
like all Muslims all over the world.
Closing my eyes,
I see the high walls dividing our lands,
our farms,
our people,
and dividing Jerusalem,
into two,
East and West.

I see checkpoints,
a lot of them,
surrounded with armed soldiers,
and a lot of police dogs,
security checking the prayers,
who come to Jerusalem just to pray,
and to complain to my God.

I prostrate again,
this time I see a light,
a strong one.
My tears ceased.
It seems a light of hope,
God sends me.
telling me occupation will be over,
peace and freedom are coming.


Mohammed Arafat
June 27th, 2019

Death,
if seen,
then,
now burns alive within.

Unapproachable,
then,
now leads,
by hand.

Mysterious,
yet,
to those whom it was given,
now revealed,
to the ignorant, who never desired it.

That which baptised the Earth,
then,
now,
a spring that waters Jerusalem.

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

Sword of Ishmael, robed in Assyria's mantle,
Consecrated of God, Prince of princes,
A Destroyer: the executioner of judgements.
A thorn driven deep into the heart of Jerusalem,
Tempting violent men, who pride in their strength,
as Excalibur and the Gordian Knot challenged
Arthur and Alexander.

The elder women walked
the dry land for twelve days
None of the sand-demons found them

The white garden
shall remain unseen
'till the angel's corpse
sprouts from the earth's belly

When will the golden hawks
be free again?
The walls of Jerusalem
had almost fallen down

In every crown
the lidless eye
is placed

Notre Dame Burns
Jerusalem Obliterated
Raised in Three Days
Yet Persists Wars and Bitter Hatred

Not unknown nor unseen,
but not as conquering hero came.
Not crowned with many crowns,
with unknowable Name,
but as Branch, on Beast that spoke,
departs from the Father, to serve,
with his Body, to pay the Bride's price.
And when in the fullness of time,
on the tenth of the first month,
with a blast of angelic trumpets,
He shall return as King
with Bride and twelve Princes.

When I was a crawling child,
I was kicked out from my house,
made of mud and straw,
with my family,
during a war my country had.
I can’t remember it.
We had a lot!

I was a child,
but I watched it all.
I saw armed soldiers with heavy helmets,
carrying guns with woody handles.
I saw armored Personnel vehicles,
carrying more soldiers.
and boxes of weapons.
There were artilleries,
stationed miles away,
bombing my neighborhood,
randomly.

I saw blindfolded and handcuffed men from my town,
standing against a wall.
A young soldier with a hateful smile and deep piercing eyes faced them,
with his pistol.
Their blood splashed on the wall after few seconds.
My father and big brother were there too.

After few days,
I woke up in a tent,
donated by the good people.
Nothing was heard,
but the murmurs of the refugees,
gathered around a truck of bread and soup.

I was alone;
all alone,
at night,
considering the rest of my family lost.

I had none,
but the big white moon above me.
I stayed up talking to it.
and praying to God above it.

Mohammed Arafat
30-03-2019

The separation wall surrounds me,
It’s everywhere, I even can’t see,
It’s unwanted and very high,
Sometimes I wish I can just fly,
Out of my big jail,
Which made my face so pale,
They separated our land,
Where I really cannot stand,
My family is in the other side,
In the land, which is already occupied,
I want to hug them,
I want to kiss my mother’s hands,
And her feet,
I want to….
I want to see my father,
My nieces and nephews.
It’s a dream, a big dream.

My first love is behind the wall,
Despite it, in love we did fall,
I delayed my wedding for five years,
We longed a lot, and shed tears,
Sometimes I escape the watchtowers,
To hear her voice, and throw some flowers,
Sometimes I try climbing the wall’s stones,
But I fall, breaking my young bones.

We have a very big farm of citrus and fruits,
I missed its trees, the branches and its roots,
My grandfather waits for me since a decade,
To help him watering the plants, which are fade.
I am on one side of the wall, and he is on another,
I have none, and he has my father, mother and brother.

My old friends are stuck as well,
With letters, they tell me their life is hell,
Unsmiling soldiers with helmets are everywhere,
Without permits, I cannot go anywhere,
neither to the old city nor to the capital,
Neither to my family, nor to my beloved.

Mohammed Arafat
31-12-2018