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Grey Area

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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