The witness of the time

I am rage, I am pain,
a fire consuming itself,
turning to dust, to ash
like a village shattered by a missile,
Its ruins, forgotten by those
Who will never ask about my broken heart,
My soul betrayed by the toxicity of war.

Inside, there is no veil,
No cover to shield the wounds that decorate me,
I die each night
only to rise with a new dream
But my dream,
It becomes the poison of war,
a chemical that burns through the very air.

I drowned in the Red Sea,
Its waters are thick with blood,
unable to reach the shore of hope.
I cannot swim through the vast desert,
Bādiyat al-Shām,
where the sun scorches my skin,
And shadows remain untouched by mercy.

I am the divide
between the Judean mountains and Jerusalem’s call,
The darkness of Palestine,
where humanity is hidden beneath rubble and grief.

My daughter only wishes to breathe,
her body, torn by gunfire,
a weight on my shoulders,
a burden too heavy for a mother’s heart.

I am weary,
Weary of life,
And I bury my treasure deep in the sands of time,
hoping it might be preserved,
Though I am a witness
to the footsteps of prophets,
their paths tracing the Mediterranean’s silence,
The quiet desert winds where they walked.

I have crossed the Stairway to Heaven,
met Noah, Isaac, Abraham, Moses,
Jesus and Mohammed
And still, I search
For more testimony,
for the truth in blood,
for the history left in ruins,
For the sacrifice that no one remembers.

I burn with anger,
With ignorance of love,
And no one comes to trace my pain,
Though I am full of fire,
The flames inside me rising
like kerosene poured upon a wound.

I am a living dead,
conquering the remnants of my world,
a world that is fading,
fighting a battle with no soldiers,
no weapons,
Only memories that poison the air.

And in the end,
All I have left
It is a faith buried beneath the rubble,
stirring, yet dead,
Waiting to rise again.