Pieces of Palestine
destruction before transformation
…
The father slowly gathers
the pieces, one by terrible
one: small shreds left of a
child - flesh, brain, sodden
matter, a hand intact but
for one, tiny missing finger.
All dressed in the grey
dust of destruction.
The plastic bag begins
to fill, and then a foot,
wearing the colourful
sock she loved so much;
that broken, delightful
child who would smile
no more. The stones
sighed as he moved them,
dribbling out more for
him to find, to gather, to
bring together in shattered
form. And watching him,
unseen, a shining figure in
flowing robes, untouched
by the carnage, and he too
collected, the broken pieces
of Palestine and placed them
gently in the laps of the crones,
who took silver needles in
silent stitching, weaving back
together, the heart, soul and
purpose of ancient, weeping
Palestine - this Holy Land,
torn asunder by hate and
rage, but never destroyed,
just broken, waiting to be
remade in the image of God.
Beautiful, moving and sad. Thanks for posting, Roslyn.
You made me think of Caitlin Johnstone the "Guerilla Poet" with that poetry. The sad images rend my soul.
Earlier today I thought of the children starving as their parents watched unable to do anything about it. Their only chance is outside help. It's always the children who starve first. My grandparents had to go through that. They lost the youngest of four. The rest survived because of outside help.
We must do whatever possible to feed and heal these innocents. Collectively we have power.