He holds his heart in his hands, wrapped in white, drenched in blood. Sometimes he kisses it, sometimes he scatters the flies from his face, as he continues walking towards the cemetery, the cemetery that is crowded with corpses, and has become a home for the displaced, after the earth, despite its vastness, became too narrow for them from the endless wandering that seemed to have no end, when the pursuers in the blazing fire pitched their tents on the seashore.
Her handkerchief stained with blood, her face covered in dust, a mother who is not yet forty kisses her baby girl, trying in vain to wake her from her last slumber, stroking her cheeks and entering into a syndrome of crying that breaks the heart, screaming, ululating from the intensity of the pain that almost tears the chests apart, and rips out the hearts filled with the pain of loss, for which there is no cure except by having the patience of the prophets.
Did I write? I don’t know what I did. Or I think I bled to the sound of the hoarse, wounding ululations that never left my ears, haunting me like a ghost that follows me in my quiet and my uproar…
May God help the mothers in Gaza...the pain of loss...the bleeding sighs...and moving under the bombardment in front of the aid traps...!!
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