An Evening Talk in Gaza


It is a war my son, It is a war

When a morning sky wouldnít embrace the sun
When a mother loses every day a son
When peace ceases to be even a dream
When the softest word morphs into a scream
When the river dries and the drought flows
When spring rejects the fragrance of the rose:

Call it any other name you want
but itís a war

Although we have no tanks to face their tanks
Although, in scores, every day we fall
Both sides will pay, my son, before itís over
The body may escape
Never the soul

It is the war the elders spoke about
and it will burn us all

It is a war, my son, thatís forced upon us
We wonít leave, my son, our home is here
Maybe we have no choice
yet I am choosing:
Iíd rather face the war
than live the fear