for Palestine:

The Tears of Olives.

Trickling down shrapnelled flesh,

tears fall,

like

blood

on

bloodied

cheek.

In the sun,

lifeless bodies

lie cold as stone,

the tears of olives

flow,

salty sentinels

of memory:

pain,

suffering,

occupation,

hunger,

the tears of olives

perennially streak,

etching pathways of dust,

between alleyways of desolation,

hopelessly bleak.

The slaughter continues,

as more dead bodies,

rot,

reek.