By Abdulghani Al-Shuaibi
Beneath a sky that weeps like wounded skin,
Gaza sighs — a caged bird held within.
Her streets are stitched with ash and stone,
Her lullabies are sirens’ moan.
She is a rose grown wild in flame,
Each petal bears a murdered name.
Like olive trees torn from the sand,
Her roots still grasp this sacred land.
A cradle turned to coffin fast,
A future eaten by the past.
And still she breathes through dust and death,
A stubborn flame with steadfast breath.
The children sleep on shattered ground,
Their dreams are bombs that have no sound.
Their toys are shadows on the wall,
Their play is dodging how to fall.
She’s starved — not just of bread and grain,
But of the right to speak her pain.
The world, a court with cotton ears,
Plays mute amid her countless tears.
And yet the tyrant calls it peace,
While tightening chains that never cease.
And vultures dressed as diplomats
Trade lives like coins in secret chats.
The eagle feeds the iron fang,
While Humanity nods — a serpent’s fang.
Their silence rings in every raid,
In every massless, nameless grave.
But Gaza — Gaza will not die.
Her breath is stubborn as the sky.
She bleeds, but every drop ignites
A thousand voices, a million fights.
She is the rhythm of the drum,
The poet’s verse, the martyr’s hum.
A simile for every soul
That breaks and still remains whole.
So carve her name on every wall,
In every tongue, in every call.
Not as a victim, lost and small,
But as a nation — rising tall.
