In my city

Something there is in this city
That doesn’t love silence.
Something there is in this city
That doesn’t love a bedtime story.
Morning mowers become evening mourners.
Daylit gardens become nigh-time graveyards.
Life walks away from the Gaza Strip.
Those who remain dream a noble death,
Until dark winds sweep us all away.

I learn what home can be,
My tangle of feelings
Sung in a slow chant--
Move on, move on, move on--
Among paintings hung on damp walls,
Shelves of inspired books
In my language of mourning,
A family clinging together
Amid crises and chaos.

Wrinkled smiles, mighty prayers,
And far-off looks are my reapings
In the morning of my small garden.
Singing birds roost in trees bare of fruit.
The dark wind blows again,  
And bright apples that fall by night,
Lie in the hands of my foe by day.

Even when the dreary humming of drones
Drowns the adhan from sunny minarets,
People still breathe love in the name of God.

Even when thoughts of bombs and rockets
Interrupt my morning prayers and breakfast,
It is still a gorgeous morning of fair skies
That do no unfairness against my people
And shine with me when I smile
Or rain with me when I cry.

Even when snipers across the fence
Leave scars across my body
And the smell of blood on my house
Covers the scent of my ancestors' olives--
The pain will not absorb me
Because I care more for what to wear
At my friends' wedding feast.