Aida misses her family home—
Which was demolished after
The furniture and everything else
Was stolen in 1948;
Which is always told by the victor.
Twisting the past into yarns—
Wool so knotted it can’t be recognized;
Its deceptive tenacity, tangled up
In sticky fur balls,
Flea ridden itch so intense,
Blood oozes from constant scratching.
The victors fall into the graves they made
For the other—
Their past, now questioned,
As the truth is told about Palestine.
Aida and her children
For the war crimes and theft
Of their land,