Photo courtesy of Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor
These tears fall into buckets, run
to streams and rivers. These tears,
shed weight from the body, leave
a light patina like drops
on the windowpane. How
to go on with the day, cook, eat,
walk, call friends, write? These
tears do not dry on the glass.
They harden into rocks and stones.
Oh, to sweep them away. To clean
the soul in spring. But there
is no spring for brothers and sisters
screaming before food trucks
and food-planes while on the hill,
behind sandbags, marksmen carry
out orders to kill at random, to create
confusion, to cause a stampede,
a diversión, while from the sky
warplanes drop two thousand
pound bombs as special forces
storm an apartment where hostages
are held. “All’s fair…” they say,
the balance on this operation,
two hundred and ninety four
Palestinians dead to four hostages
come home alive without negotiation,
or concession, or pity. These tears
I shed even if I cannot stop them
for those–who have no empathy–
who do not care what I say or do.