Pens hunger as people do, hearts crack and bodies melt, and throats dry up just as ink dries on the white paper, turning words into a counterpart of whiteness, while the pain of loss carves its grooves into the weary bodies in the hell of slaughter, where the killer has not yet quenched his thirst, and his appetite opens up for more with threats and intimidation to restore the disturbed to the occupied.
Pens hide behind clouds of smoke and the pangs of pain, ink recedes, and the ink dries like the dryness of milk in the breasts of mothers starving in tents, where no palm tree is shaken by nursing mothers to drop fresh dates to relieve them and their children from the persistent hunger at their doors.
Yes, pens scream just as intestines do, and words become muddied in the face of the pain of loss through killing and starvation, while mothers embrace the shoes of their offspring in a scene that shakes hearts from their depths. How do they sleep? How do they eat? How do they spend their evenings? And how do they wake up? The questions of the pain residing in Gaza have become answers suspended from the excess of what has befallen the families in the hell of the massacre.
When flesh melts and bones become visible beneath it, life turns into a counterpart of death in a world where the days nearing seven hundred are not enough to awaken from the slumber colluding with the massacre.
The disturbed will not succeed in achieving his goals except by drowning deeper in the blood of children and women, driven by dreams of the "Riviera" and urges for revenge and control over the land where all elements of life have been killed.
שתף את דעתך
When the disturbed reoccupies the occupied!