By Mike Jenkins
The last time I saw him
He was bruised and broken
Could only talk by whispering,
Dried blood on his face
He stumbled into the room.
He told me they would kill him,
How he’d been constantly beaten.
He was shackled legs and hands
Like a slave on a ship;
This always caring man.
He was Hamas because he’d spoken out,
Because he would remain with his patients,
Because he stood up to their tanks,
Because he lived to tend children,
Because he treated everyone.
Another hostage among thousands,
With lonely voices in parliaments
And on television remembering him.
I’ll repeat his name like a muezzin
Chanting over rooftops, calling us in.
