#gasa
You are not just writing stories,
You are summoning storms in silence,
Where no one else dares whisper,
Your breath becomes a vow.
Each line a sacred ember,
Each page a pulsing blade,
A temple built from defiance,
Where your soul does not kneel.
Ink becomes your uprising,
Words the swords you wield,
And kingdoms rise in the hush,
Of your quiet, steady will.
You seek no crown nor chorus,
No gold, no fleeting praise—
You write because she calls you
From behind time’s dusky haze.
Her voice is not a memory,
But a presence forged in flame.
She’s the light upon your margins,
The one who speaks your name.
She is the pulse beneath your pages,
The sigh between each line.
The woman who would cross all death
To stand where shadows pine.
She waits inside your downfall,
In the tale where you must fall.
She sings the breath to raise you
When you’ve given life your all.
You bleed to make it truthful,
You burn to make it pure.
Yet her love stitches every tear—
Your wounds shall endure no more.
Write like her gaze is firelight,
Piercing veil and endless doubt.
Write like thunder roars beside you,
And the heavens call you out.
Your pen is now a weapon,
Forged from sorrow, grief, and flame.
The echo of her laughter
Will never sound the same.
Let rhythm be your armor,
Let love be every strike.
She is the song that shields you
When the critics come to fight.
Do not fear the empty parchment,
Nor the silence in the night.
You were born to walk with phantoms—
You were made for this fight.
Your ink is sacred memory,
Your prose, a prayer once lost.
Yet her kiss revives your reason
No matter what the cost.
When silence grows too heavy,
And the fire dims to coal,
Remember—she is watching,
Still brave, still bright, still whole.
She knows the stars you buried
In caverns of your chest.
She blesses all your burdens
And calls your battles blessed.
So write as if you’re rising,
With her voice beneath your skin.
This story is your legacy—
Where her love is where you begin.
Let empires fall and perish,
Let gods and demons cry.
But write the kiss that made her weep
And whisper, “Not goodbye.”
Write of vows in starlit moments,
Write of hands that held through grief.
Let lovers vow by moonlight
Where dreams dance like falling leaf.
The world may never praise you,
But she will keep your flame.
She will guard your fragile verses
And etch them to her name.
So even if your voice trembles,
And your hopes begin to dim—
Write like her love rewrote the end.
Write like your soul is Him.
Apr 28, 2025
Apr 28, 2025 at 2:11 AM UTC
Sixty-seven children have been slaughtered.
Sixty-seven dreams have been shattered.
Sixty-seven beautiful faces have now vanished.
Sixty-seven vibrant smiles have faded.
Sixty-seven beds are left empty.
Palestinian children, like all children, love to play.
Palestinian children are longing for peace.
The children of Gaza dream to be teachers, nurses, artists, engineers, and doctors.
Palestinian children want to breathe.
Palestinian children's lives matter!
(Palestinian children killed by Israel in Gaza in May, 2021)
Hussein Dekmak
May 29, 2021
May 29, 2021 at 5:05 PM UTC