The west bank is the heart,

And both are bleeding,

Both are in a state of shock,

Tractors across their veins,

Their arteries poisoned,

Their airwaves struggling for life.

Maybe the time for poetry is dead,

Buried in a mass grave

Along with the doctors and ambulances,

I can’t keep up with the slaughters

And the evil of zionist cowards

Hiding behind their military power.

A poem cannot supply the resistance

With equal might, with a navy, an army,

Bombs to retaliate,

To shake the fuckers off the land,

A poem can’t do most things

Like land a stone right between the eyes

Of an arrogant Brooklyn settler,

(((Oh no, not another headline of the barbarity of the arab, here come the blood thirsty victims raping children)))

In the name of jewish safety,

And national security-

A poem is not a tank,

Nor is it a victim,

It is not a baby miraculously pulled

From the rubble,

Because that cry,

That shriek in the face of erasure

Is why we gather,

Why we fight

And why you can never tell me that

There is nothing to fight for.

A poem cannot resuscitate

The martyrs,

It cannot build a world

Where all children are playing in the sun,

Not under rockets and snipers,

But under the caring gaze of elders,

It cannot do a lot of things,

But it can imagine in a time

When even to imagine is an act of resistance.

It can say for all with ears to hear,

“I will not remain silent.

I will not obey or comply.

I will witness and I will not forget the crimes and i will haunt zionists – as long as I live, and as long as a poem has wings – I will traverse time.”

That, dear friends, is what a poem can do.