Remembering Gaza Poem by Noor Othman

My creative spark has turned to ash,
Beneath the weight of every crash.
With children lost and mothers torn,
How can a quiet thought be born?

Creativity is a ghost these days,
Lost in the smoke and the senseless haze.
When small lives end, and mothers bleed,
What kind of poem does the world need?

Each time I reach to find the keys,
I'm haunted by these tragedies.
Since Gaza fell to fire and light,
I've prayed for morning in this night.

My fingers hover above the board,
But the screen is a flash of a broken ward.
Since the strikes began, the ink runs dry;
I'm left with a heavy, wordless 'Why? '

But prayers are whispers in the gale;
Without a hand, our voices fail.
To those with power: hear the plea,
And end this through decree.

I penned this poem on 19th February 2026, after more than 2 years of the endless ongoing onslaught of Israel upon Gaza. The world seems incapacitated by the brutality of the oppressor