a morning thought: where do all the little things go?
the little bows and scrunchies, nail clippers and tooth brushes,
are they still scattered in the rubble?
i try to imagine how much exists down there
but the photos of bombed homes and hospitals, mosques and schools only show gray
no words come
the world is a static screen
we scream
but it is only grey
all of it grey
there are bodies down there too, i remember
i see a man crying over an entire lineage lost in a video
i don't know that pain but i feel a sharp sting in my chest
how does anyone know that pain?
it's too big to hold, too big to stand face to face with
(but still, all of it grey)
"these are two sides of a complex, never-ending conflict"
every bystander's mouth drooling and dripping disgustingly with grey
slurring with sleep, "peace, peace, peace"
because they don't see the blood (it is red)
of the 6 year old boy who's cat would outlive him
or the wedding dress (it is white)
of a couple who decided they would still be married over the debris
they said they don't see colour, remember?
(they don't see anything but grey)
we may dwell on the twilights but dawn is also a guarantee
it will rise up like the martyrs we buried and it will say:
the bodies (they are brown)
the sun (it is yellow)
the olives (they are green)
the sea (it is blue)
all will testify
i complained yesterday about something inconsequential
then sat shocked at my ingratitude
does the oppressor live within me too?
anything but to be like them
is that what they reason?
anything but to be like them
anything but to be like them
what a privilege to hold each other
let the shards puncture our lungs!
rather a broken heart than numbness
they repeat
anything but to be like them
anything but to be like them
we watch
anything but to be like them
the tv screen is static
still, grey.
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