Israel Feeds On Blood, Flesh And Bones Poem by Mohammad Yousef

By Mohammad A. Yousef

In the shadow of the olive trees,
where ancient roots stretch deep,
the sun pours down, heavy with a history,
and whispers swirl like dust in the air.

The land once sang with laughter,
crickets buzzing like secrets,
children playing, feet bare on warm earth.
But now silence lingers like smoke,
across hills where breath once thrived.

Israel stands, a giant,
with hands stained deep,
grasping at dreams carved from bones,
each conflict a dark fable unseen,
wrapped in flags that wave too loudly.

The streets, lined with stories untold,
echo with footsteps that shouldn't be there,
the heartbeats of natives
out of place in their own home.
Architecture formed from pain.

Voices rise, like the wind, crying out,
we are here, we have a right to be,
amidst walls that close in like night,
the cries too often swallowed by quiet too cruel.

Minds sharp as blades,
clash with forces of history,
where hope dances on the edge,
and fear wraps tightly around trust.
Fingers point, blame tossed like stones,
an endless round of who owns the dawn.

Yet in the darkness,
tiny grasses push through cracks,
defying roots pulled too tight,
offering stories of survival,
of love that tenderly stitches the wounds,
But binds them, too,
a precarious hope threaded through the heart.

For every hand that takes,
there are hands that give,
rising from the dust with resilience,
gathering shattered pieces,
building bridges, wider than the divides,
with songs of unity
echoing through the silence,
through barbed wire and blood-smeared soil.

Here they fight, but also stand —
holding candles against the night,
the glow revealing
that even in the darkest of tomorrows,
a new dawn could rise,
each soul intertwined,
a tapestry richer than ambition,
where silence turns to breath,
and all can feast on peace.