By Chris Lane

It’s late;
How pale the sky over Palestine
Clouds dripping blood
on ancient golden stone.
Withered white the jacaranda
once garbed in purple dress
Ready for the dance.
How silent the blue bells,
Dangling on dead donkey necks.

How cold my heart.
Each night I quarter, slice and stab
In the morning hope still breathes breathless.

Masked military robots
Kicking on my door,
A rifle poking around scarred human scraps
Goats shitting on the floor below.

Open your shattered window to Gaza
Smithereens of glass imprint you palm.
A child is on the 3rd floor,
A hole in her chest no cotton wool can stave.
Collect up the pieces, the arms, the legs,
Rebuild a Pinocchia in a dress of steel.

Check the night
View the starless sky.
Wander down the yellow sandy track,
Bloodied baby head sprout like poppy flowers,
Black roses blanket the odd appendage –blasted into space,
A brother struggles to find his sister’s pieces.
As you turn away,
Look behind-
Is that an echo of dying screams?
Look above-
See the silver swallows as they leave
I must freeze my nightmare and gasp
To catch the morning’s birdsong.

-Chris Lane is a writer and has lived in the Occupied Territories for many years. She contributed this poem to PalestineChronicle.com