Philistine Ayad

Palestine

lays upon the street broken,

     torn apart and

dying—smothered—stifled,

     painted in blood.

happiness does not laugh

     for us—instead

bitter and hate filled sounds

     resonate in the distance

gunshots—explosions—crying,

     a yellow cloud

forms among the struggling youth,

     who choke—burn—suffocate

as air is robbed from juvenile lungs

     bullets cut swiftly

through the rain with malicious intent,

     piercing bodies—taking lives.

Defeat tastes copper-like,

     trickling from their mouths

splattering the floor.

And still we continue to fight.

     For our homes, our lives,

For the right to exist.