This war has taken everything with it;
In my little world, all that remained was my son.
Growing beyond his years, he hid his pain:
Well before time, he tried his best to appear as a man.
Dutiful to his baba and an ever-willing friend,
He would insist on going the extra mile to chop wood
Or in search of some bread.
My son, I would beam — the stick of my old age,
When my knees would give in and I would need a steady hand.
But this war does not end,
And our enemies are no honourable men.
They do not spare a stone, nor the fish in the sea,
Nor leave a single tree standing;
So what chance did stand my little sapling?
This newsletter wouldn’t be possible without your support. If you’re able, please consider a paid subscription here or on Ko-fi or Patreon. You can also buy me a coffee or two at the link below. Thank you!
No honorable men among Palestine’s enemies. Were words more true ever spoken?
Global ban on Israelis entering other countries.