Inheritance

in Palestine,

the morning begins with prayer,

Allāhu akbar

a single thread rising through the smoke,

weaving a tapestry of worship—

“prayer is better than sleep”—

the holy cry slips between the hollowed walls,

carries across shattered roofs,

as the shuttle slips through the warp of devotion

carrying the weft of grief.

it climbs and twines the minarets still standing,

until even the dust listens.

~

in Palestine,

children sleep in broken beds of brick and bone;

they dream of sweet oranges and figs and pomegranates,

of za’atar and oil and the taste of home rising,

like prayer on their tongues.

and they dream of kites unmoored from the rubble,

rising higher than the smoke.

and small, dusty hands grasp the air for strings

that the world keeps cutting loose.

~

in Palestine,

the sea still sighs against the shore,

a weary breath that refuses rest,

even when the streets fall silent.

its waves cradle the rubble,

salt water kissing concrete,

soothing the wounds of war

where children once splashed and swam,

laughing with the tide—

the sea remembers every name.

~

in Palestine,

a mother kneads bread with the softness of her palm—

there is nothing left to offer but the motion of giving.

the dough swells beneath her fingers,

a hymn of flour and water,

a psalm of quiet defiance.

her children watch in silence,

memorizing the gesture,

acolytes learning a secret prayer.

~

in Palestine,

the air begs alms through rows of silent stumps

where it once bought and sold in citrus blossoms,

sweetness bartered on every breeze.

the shade of fragrant groves turned to graves

haunted by the shades of old roots and second-hand memory—

they recall the fruit sellers peddling wares of the earth.

tomorrow the debt of silence will be paid

and the bright-colored bazaar will blossom once more.

~

in Palestine,

the mourning begins with prayer,

Allāhu akbar

lines of grief pressing shoulder to shoulder,

whispers rising: “O Allah, forgive them,

have mercy on them,”

the ground swallows the names of the dead

leaving behind small shoes and tea kettles and prayer beads;

the alif carries them all,

folded into God’s mercy, unbroken.

healing is their reward.

~

in Palestine,

the olive trees bend and bend but do not break.

they have seen the rise of ruins, the fall of crowns,

they have seen centuries of sorrow,

borne the weight of kingdoms in their gnarled branches.

the tenderness of new fruit carefully tended and plucked from loving hands

oil pressed into light, grief into sustenance

while their roots clutch the soil to bind sorrow and survival.

steadfastness is their portion.

~

in Palestine,

the night ends in prayer—

as-salāmu ʿalaykum,

frayed threads of a tattered tapestry turned shroud

like the ash settled on has-been streets.

the sea still stirs against the orphan sand,

singing her ancient lullaby

while the stars press their witness above.

and the sparrows return;

and the jasmine blooms in hidden corners

and the Adhan summons the dawn once more.