By Abdulghani Al-Shuaibi
He walked — a whisper on the broken land,
Twelve kilometres, barefoot in the sand.
No shield but ribs, no cloak but skin and bone,
A child with hunger hollow in each groan.
His name was Amir — a boy, not yet a man,
Who dreamed of bread, not borders, guns, or ban.
He bore no blade, no flag, no fight, no flame,
Yet still they marked him with a sniper’s aim.
The sun struck hard; the earth was cracked and wide,
Still Amir walked — with hope as his only guide.
Each step, a prayer pressed into thirsty soil,
Each breath, a poem carved from pain and toil.
At last, he reached the soldier with a plea,
His hands outstretched, not seeking victory.
A crumb was tossed — a mockery of grace,
And Amir kissed the hand that masked the face.
That kiss — a rose dropped on a field of ash,
A moment soft before the final crash.
And then — the shot, the silence, and the sand,
As blood bloomed red beneath his outstretched hand.
He fell like twilight — tender, young, and small,
A star extinguished in its silent fall.
What was his crime? To breathe? To hope? To be
A child of Palestine who dared be free?
No court can cleanse, no tongue can now defend
The act that stripped him of both breath and end.
A bullet answered what a loaf could give —
They feared his hunger more than if he’d lived.
But Amir lives — not in their files or lies,
But in the weeping of his mother’s eyes,
In every stone that mourns beneath the wall,
In every voice that dares to name it all.
He walks again each time we speak his name,
Not as a martyr lost, but as a flame.
He kissed a hand, but he defied the sword —
A barefoot boy, with dignity restored.
So let the pages scream where silence slept,
And carve his name where coward hearts have wept.
For Amir’s ghost will haunt the soil they stain,
Until the world can feel a child’s pain.
