Land of the Stories

Sixty-four years, nine months, and seven days, a stranger in my home. A country no longer the same. Crates of oranges from Yaffa have lost their blanket of Arabic scrawl. Lyd no longer stretches across the bare land like a miracle castle. No trash pickup, no safe playgrounds, Just the smell of burning waste and trails of blood from children’s feet cut by hidden shards of class at the base of broken, plastic slides. Limp bodies pulled from rubble Children dodging bullets on their way to school, With their mother’s voice in the head saying, “Ya 3ani, be proud to be Palestinian; it is all we have left.” A forbidden history, Too controversial to be told, Left alone to be forgotten, Only remembered in the hearts of Palestinians Holding onto a story, A story with a land Slowly being pulled from their grasp.