In Gaza i met a mother
who’s son was lost 20 years
in the occupier’s prison. The tears
of all those years left her blinded.
My son held my hand as
we walked in the woods.
i imagined him taken from me
by the fools of power.
The sunset stripped of color,
would still carry majesty.
the sea would lose its depth,
yet hold it’s mystery.
What doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger or
so i’ve heard, but that
doesn’t lessen the pain.
A blind man hesitated,
once and then once again
his stick rhythmically tapping
on the broken concrete curb.
i held him gently by the arm
and said, ‘Can i walk with you?’
he smiled and said, ‘Brother,
are you not blinded too?’
All the raindrops falling,
every drop in the endless sea
fail to match years of tears
of the mothers of Palestine.
I met a boy blinded
by the occupiers rockets
no longer can he shed a tear
i cry for him throughout the year.
Yet, flowers bloom in
the Palestinian desert
the rushing sea purifies
the Gazan shore.
The tears of the youth
etch truth in the heart.
i am not blinded by tears,
at least not yet.
The tears of the brokenhearted
burn clear, clarifying our dreams,
sanctifying the parched earth
with every golden drop.
