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The Palestinian Rebel

I am the rebel, born of the olive tree,
My roots run deep, no chain can shatter me.
I am the cry that breaks the iron night,
I am the flame that refuses to lose its light.

I am the stone in the hand of the child,
I am the desert wind, untamed and wild.
I wear no crown, I fear no throne,
For every hill and every field is my own.

I am the voice of martyrs who bled,
I am the song of the living and the dead.
I am the call of the mosque and the bell,
I am the story the rivers tell The Rebel of Palestine.

I am the rebel, the soul of Palestine,
In me the eternal spirit will always shine.
I am the storm that breaks all bars for Palestine,
I am the prayer written in the stars.

You may burn my home, you may wound my sky in Palestine
But I rise again in Palestine, I will never die in Palestine
For in my heart, unbroken, free,
Lives my land, my love, my destiny in Palestine.
Dedicated to all those innocent life's lost in Palestine Gaza and Israel.
If happiness is what you seek,
Step away from fortune’s peak.
Leave behind the rush and gold,
And walk where simpler tales unfold.

See that meadow, vast and bright,
Where golden wheat sways in the light.
Through the fields a stream does glide,
Winding gently, free and wide.

Stand amidst the open land,
Feel the earth beneath your hand.
No voices call, no crowds are near,
Just whispering winds you’ll only hear.

Close your eyes, breathe in deep,
Let the hush in silence sweep.
Now tell me true, without delay,
Did peace not find your heart today?

See that old man by the square,
Waiting in the scorching air.
His carriage worn, his hands so frail,
His strength now lost in life’s travail.

Step inside, let him steer,
Take him anywhere you hold dear.
When your journey meets its close,
Watch him wipe his weary brows.

See the tremble in his hands,
Weighed with time’s unkind demands.
Give him more than what is due,
A token kind, a gift from you.

See the sparkle in his eyes,
As his worries fade and fly.
The weary face once lined with strain,
Now softened into joy again.

Look upon his grateful smile,
Lingering there a little while.
Tell me now, in this embrace,
Did you not touch true grace?

Your child returns with tear-stained face,
A playground quarrel, a bruised disgrace.
He speaks of how the bully’s might,
Had left him lost, consumed with fright.

The bully too, a child alone,
Hiding now, afraid to atone.
He fears the wrath, the bitter fate,
That surely comes when power waits.

Walk to him, where shadows fall,
See him cower, frail and small.
Kneel beside him, speak with care,
Erase the fear, the deep despair.

“Come,” you say, “we all make wrongs,
But kindness turns the weakest strong.”
A tearful nod, a hand held tight,
The cold of fear gives way to light.
Happiness

— The End —