Poem for Gaza

Gaza bleeds under the shining sun,

A desperate cry of what's undone.

The world stands, silent, frozen cold,

As history replays in blood and gold.

The children play in the blood-soaked dirt,

Their tiny hands, their hearts, they hurt—

But they still continue to play and explore

As death comes knocking at the door.

The unborn scream from the rubble’s

deep,

Their tiny lungs caught in an endless snare.

In a world where children are born to weep,

Their cries echo in the midnight air.

They cry for mercy, the desperate plea,

For peace, for life, for dignity—

The blood banks dry, the gauze runs thin,

As missiles rain down on Al-Shifa's skin—

A mother, a doctor, in the heart of despair,

Her child’s tiny chest gasps for air—

But the medicines are gone, the supplies

have ceased,

She fights with her hands, with no relief, no peace.

With trembling arms, she holds her own,

A healer, a mother, but still so alone.

The stethoscope is silent, her skills wear

thin,

For how can she heal, when the war’s locked her in?