Image by the author
By Abdulghani Al-Shuaibi
The ovens of bread are cold as stone,
Like graves unmarked, the fields lie prone.
Children’s stomachs echo like drums,
Hollow hymns where no harvest comes.
The river of milk has turned to sand,
A mother’s palm holds no grain in hand.
Dates dry out on skeletal trees,
While famine crawls on the choking breeze.
This hunger is no act of fate,
No storm, no plague, no natural state.
It is crafted—blueprints of despair,
Designed in silence, engineered with care.
Like wolves in suits behind gilded doors,
They ration death, then demand applause.
Their allies smile with sharpened teeth,
Feasting well while Gaza starves beneath.
The world looks on with blinded eyes,
Counting coins while a people dies.
The sea is near, yet lips are dry,
The sky is wide, yet prayers must cry.
Oh Gaza—lantern in the night,
Your bones are spears, your hunger a fight.
Though famine claws and nations betray,
Your spirit refuses to waste away.
For every crumb denied by greed,
A seed of rage begins to bleed.
And every child unfed, unheard,
Becomes the fire in history’s word.
