Free Palestine
Blood Soaked Soil: A Poem
A genocide branded as security
The earth trembles beneath stained skies,
crimson rivers run through shattered streets.
Homes collapsed into dust and silence,
children's laughter… buried beneath rubble.
You call this justice?
To level hospitals into graves,
cutting water from parched throats,
while the living beg bread from the dead?
Mothers wail beneath starless nights.
Fathers dig graves with broken hearts.
Small hands clutch for missing family;
dreaming of milk,
of warmth,
of breath…
free from smoke,
from dust,
from death.
You call this defense?
A dome of fire against caged lives,
a military machine grinding bones to policy,
a genocide branded as security?
But the earth remembers;
the desert drinks deeply of sorrow,
the winds carry the names of the lost
beyond the borders of your lies.
History will name you;
not as righteous, not as saviors,
but as architects of destruction.
The weavers of terror and ruin.
You can level the land.
You can torch the roots,
but you cannot kill memory,
or the fire that burns
in the hearts of the people.
Naming their dead
and singing their truth…
Free Palestine!
Thank you for sharing in your time to read some of my poetry. I write as a part of my healing journey. I share in the hopes it may lighten the load for fellow travelers along their own soul-filled journey.
Claps, highlights, and comments are digital sunshine.
Peace.
