Eyes Weary

The sight of another dead stirs that woe deep in me. A thing viscerally hidden spikes, an anger towards the unreasonable machinations of a world, political. All these politics operating with scheming hands, things are optical. Oh, how they digitize that plight and make what’s right wrong, and what’s wrong right. A barbarian face they paint on disadvantaged sons, as the oppressor’s wrongs are hummed with righteous songs.

Like olive stems prematurely cut from the branch, a generation waylaid by an occupier’s military branch. Palestinian parents mourn their young lost, buried in old lands, but even those are lost. Uprooted and moved, the old sacred tree, they cut out the heart and dies the innocent seed. A sight of ruin, dilapidation and despair; the media still weaves its story as if the truth didn’t care.

Old and ancient rhyme buried deep in the human soul, a connection to the land and history entrenched beneath their weary-laden soles. Houses are taken, whole villages dispossessed, children weep their fallen siblings, how’s the world not incensed? Military occupation, violation against all that’s humane, and still the storyline claims that the oppressed is to blame.

If words could save lives, stop a bullet mid flight, I’d sit at my keyboard and creep words into night. If not occupation, or a litany of war crimes, can they not see the bloodshed, how many more children this time? Can there be a future, where stories are not hell bent; where they aint’ molded for a narrative, where no innocent lives are spent.

My eyes grow weary, my ears blasted by sound. It rains tears upon my cheeks, as they lay another child down. May they find peace within heavenly gates, if only the world was wiser, how might different been their fates.