Death lets a quivering breath
As he approaches my Love,
Shamefully taking her by the hand.
For even he is servant to time,
And time… has fallen into my Love
Tag: Palestine
18th
You are my inevitable inspiration.
At first, you are my language.
Then, you are my tongue.
At last, you are the moment I can’t swallow.
And sometime after that, you are gone.
16
I told her “My dream awaits
Beyond the olive groves,
It hides in the warmth
Of a figs sugary folds.”
I told her “My childhood,
Nestled in your jasmine vines,
Swings in whispering scents
That powder your neck in thyme.”
I told her “My heart lives
In Palestine’s street,
In your life visit again
So I can feel my heart beat.”
Day, the Third
Between the borders of my self,
The lips of the departed mourn,
For there my spirit descends,
Taking the eyes of death.
My City
I want to paint a city
with letters and words…
Lift it up
with .’s and !’s
Slip away with me
Between the words
Into an alley
Of memory
Where the soul paints
On crumbling cinder
with ideas and where
We find a silence different
From that of .’s and !’s
At a still dawn
Our earth awakes to a call.
From within itself a voice
Lays truth, an amber spell.
She pulls across her body
The sunlight shawl of morning,
Across amber fields of barley,
The swell of dew filled dreaming .
Two golden seas mix, this instant,
And truths blend,indifferent;
For what is taken… is uplifted.
Let the leaves of the olive tree,
Let a past’s youthful brew.
Let me hear their silence be
A prayer she listens to.
I dont usually ask for input, but I’d love to hear your reactions to this one if you may :).
~Love and Peace
Abid
A Window sort of Frame
One day I sat in a wooden frame
That I found in the attic,
And as I thought all stills the same,
I set out to frame some music.
And what trouble did it seem,
To make this fancy true,
That I didn’t think of a likely thing
And think of a window!
So I took a hammer and the frame
And thought of every sound
That never could be heard in dream,
But could be by a window found!
I dedicate this poem to siti (my grandmother) who spends long hours by a window reading the Quran, or watching us children play. I love her greater than life.
A different joy
Sparrows are bells strung
In the unending celebration
Hidden in the wind.
And the wind recites
A thousand pages,
Of a thousand olive trees.
And the olive trees
Drink the sweat
Of my father.
And he holds me.
In his arms still…
As the arms of Palestine.
-Abid
So I wrote this very briefly and didnt think to revise it. It was a result of happiness and relief I felt so briefly in this valley of our struggling reality. Its free as verse gets, and I really like it, Id like to think of it as an entire moment of confession and submission to the honesty of joy. But you may think what kind of joy is this, this joy is hope. So, I hope you enjoy it 🙂
This is a picture of hope I took on the wall in the West Bank.
______-Day 5
You have walked upon our land
Through your many journeys,
Though the same face
You have never shown her.
In her restlesness she flourishes
Through her faith she falls…
Despite your changing tears that settle
She knows that you are the same.
Sparrows-Day 1
Sparrows scattered, like seeds tossed
From my grandmothers gentle hands,
As her years and memories lost,
So loosely in this broken land.
At the eve of a quiet day,
When the village left to pray,
The day would fall in tired talk,
And Id amongst these sparrows walk.
ahorsealone 
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