If I Must Die
by : Refaat Alareer
If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze–
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself–
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze–
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself–
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale
Over The Wall
by : Refaat Alareer
‘There,’ points Grandma.
She had a tent that was a home.
She had a goat and a camel.
She had a rake and a fork and a trowel.
She had a machete and a watering can.
She had a grove and two hundred plants.
She had a child and another one and another one.
***
‘There,’ she insists.
I could not see
Because of the wall.
I could not hear
Because of the noise.
I could not smell
Because of the powder.
***
But I can always tell,
I am sure of Grandma
Who always was
And is still
And will always be.
She smells like soil.
And smiles like soil.
And blinks like soil
When touched by rain.
***
She has a house that is a tent
She has a key
And a memory.
She has a hope
And two hundred offspring.
***
Grandma is here
But lives there.
Freshly Baked Souls
by : Refaat Alareer
As fire balls and sparks descend,
And the little ones rejoice,
Look up, and cheer, unable to comprehend,
Sooner than they expect
They will be blown
(It’s none of their wishes
If only they had known!)
And more freshly grilled balls of flesh ascend.
And fall on full dishes
And fill the boxes.
And the hollow minds.
The full bellies.
They look down. Rejoice. Cheer.
“Freshly baked!”
“Freshly baked!”
“Who wants freshly baked flesh for breakfast?”
“Throw me a piece. “
“Throw me four.
I have just eaten but crave for more.”
***
The hearts are not hearts.
The eyes can’t see
There are no eyes there
The bellies craving for more
A house destroyed except for the door
The family, all of them, gone
Save a photo album
That has to be buried with them
No one was left to cherish the memories
No one.
Except freshly baked souls in bellies.
Except for a poem .
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