Everything in Gaza hangs on the edge of loss:
the air is fractured, the sky is pierced,
and mothers give birth to silence, endless, beginningless.
Nothing here is born whole; even stories come out amputated.
Laughter, when it happens, feels foreign,
as if trying to escape madness, and failing each time.
The remnants of homes speak for themselves,
telling tales of death and survival,
whispering what was never heard and what will never be heard again.
Every window beneath the rubble holds the image of an explosion,
every corner remembers someone who left and never returned.
The birds are silent, as if the sky itself is afraid
to tell us what comes next.
We fear the light as much as we fear the dark.
We fear falling asleep lest our dreams be bombed,
and waking up to find our hearts have changed their address.
The night is long, hope is short,
and survival has been postponed until further notice.
The schools are empty of children,
but the echo of their voices still lingers in the shattered streets.
Gaza a city that, every time it buries its children, gives birth to new patience.
It faces death for the thousandth time and still does not die.
It rises, as if redefining the meaning of a miracle every single day.