Aida misses her family home— Which was demolished after The furniture and everything else Was stolen in 1948; Including history… 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 Seek compensation And restitution For the war crimes and theft Of their land, Palestine.
Palestinians are forbidden from walking and driving on “Jewish only” roads.
O those who pass Between fleeting words— Carry your names, And be gone— Rid our time of your hours, And be gone—
Steal what you will From the blueness of the sea, And the sand of memory; Take what pictures you will, So that you understand That which you never will: How a stone from our land Builds the ceiling of our sky.
From you— steel and fire, From us… our flesh. From you— yet another tank, From us… stones. From you— teargas, From us rain…
It is time for you To be gone— Live wherever you like, But do not live among us.
It is time for you To be gone— Die wherever you like, But do not die among us; For we have work to do In our land.
So leave our country, Our land, our sea, Our wheat, our salt, our wounds: Everything, and leave— The memories of memory O those who pass Between fleeting words!