By Pina Piccolo

(Dedicated to Anas Qandeel, the boy that was killed in Gaza one hour after posting his fear and frustration in Facebook.)

You weren’t killed by the Mighty Cliff
that crumbled upon your house,
Anas Qandeel, one hour after you posted
your frustration at lack of sleep,
nor was it the Protective Edge
with its sharp surgical precision
and the policy hadn’t been set,
yet
to send an sms, or tap the roof in warning
Gaze, impatient boy,
past the Molten Lead
past the Society of Spectacle
watching and eating pop corn
rosy cheeked from its Sderot hill
past the grieving orange groves
and olive trunks contorted
in the shape of a certain
languishing of the heart
past that snaking Wall
emitting that certain dirge
refraining in your brain
like the dimming buzz
of collapsing colonies
as you glance a doll’s head
surfacing amid crumbled concrete blocks
her eyes glassy and stunned
at the deeds of humans
and not wishing for a moment
not even in play
to partake of them.

It was the tears of the Buraq,
my dear young boy
in their hologramic splendor
that hit your house, Anas,
beaming out their laser purity
at the young
enticing them with their song
forever,
lulling them to the slumber of beauties
waiting like honey-suckle
for the kiss of the humming bird
of change.

– Pina Piccolo contributed this poem to PalestineChronicle.com.