Brilliant piece of poetry submitted by a sister.
Today while making Iftari, a sudden image struck me,
As I fried the Pakorey,
And brewed the tea.
Somewhere, a boy sits under a tree,
Staring at his mud caked hands; holding a bruised knee.
And the sound of a gunshot echoes again,
And he gets up and runs, forgetting his pain.
Back there in Homs, clinging to dear life,
Who knows who fasts, and still survives?
I shake my head and set the plates,
The spoons and glasses, and the dates,
And as I pour cold water in a jug,
I am reminded of the water shared, and a cherished hug,
From a Palestinian girl, some years ago.
Through a forced smile behind tears that flowed,
She held my hands just to say:
“Do remember us, whenever you pray.”
And finally when the call for prayer is heard,
I gaze at…
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