To my dreams

On the other bank of the river

I am like an hourglass, my grains slipping

Each time I reach across to touch the other side

The rippling waters swallow up my elbows – like a jar sealed tight

Its stopper stubborn in the neck

On the first bank – where watermelon is a symbol – Gaza

Wandering in the whispers of the firewood

My head radiates with the glow of accomplished goals,

consumed by the flames of war

Everything around me is silent

Except the cursed cell

In which the sounds echo; one after another

Every buzzing therein; a dream steaming in my head

Those moments drowned me in tears

Like a willow bowing to the ground

Not in prayer but in sorrow too heavy to bear

My passion never faltered

Even when the rusty lock – occupation – tries to suffocate it

I crawl, I strive slowly , nside the watermelon – Gaza, to no avail

The closer I get to my dream

Its features change and flees

As if testing my patience and faith

Days pass

But the dream is never completely dispersed

They tell me: Dream!

But I was born in a land where dreams die of hunger

My waist bones stick out, sharp as a gun sticking out of a rusty lock –

the occupation.

Not from hunger but from that watermelon; Gaza

Where dreams die starving, too

Still,

A part of me still lives, somehow alive

Though the rusty lock, in all its cunning

May try to block my path

I shall go on dreaming

For there is still room to dream

To reach to most intricate – the tiniest details

I will reach the zenith –with my dreams