Whispers of the Olive Trees
In the land where olive trees once kissed the sun,
Where the winds wove tales of peace and grace,
There lies a land, ancient and young,
A land of tears, a land displaced.
Beneath the azure sky, a mother’s cry,
Echoes through the silent night,
Her voice, a lament for days gone by,
For a home torn apart by endless fight.
She speaks of fields, now stained with grief,
Of rivers that once sang with life,
Now carrying echoes of disbelief,
And the memories of unending strife.
Children, with eyes too old for their years,
Wander through the dust of what remains,
Their laughter swallowed by hidden fears,
Their hearts bound by invisible chains.
They dream of a place they’ve never known,
Of cities where the streets are free,
But their dreams are seeds never sown,
In soil tainted by captivity.
A father’s hands, once strong and proud,
Now tremble with the weight of loss,
He builds homes in the clouds,
Where hope is the only cost.
His heart beats with the rhythm of despair,
As he clings to a picture, faded and worn,
Of a life that was once fair,
Before the night of exile was born.
The land that once cradled his birth,
Now rejects his every step,
A stranger on his own earth,
Where every memory is kept.
In the refugee camps, the wind sighs,
Carrying the scent of distant shores,
Where the sea meets the sky,
And freedom no longer implores.
But here, among the tents and sorrow,
Life persists, despite the pain,
With every dawn, a new tomorrow,
A fragile hope in the pouring rain.
The women weave stories into their rugs,
Of times when the land was whole,
Each thread a silent hug,
For a fractured, yearning soul.
The men gather around the fire’s light,
Speaking of justice, of what is owed,
Their words, both weary and bright,
Are the only roads they’ve ever known.
Yet, within this ocean of despair,
Lies a strength that cannot be quelled,
A spirit that refuses to tear,
A dignity, deeply held.
For the Palestinian heart beats on,
In the soil, in the stone,
In every child born at dawn,
In every seed that’s sown.
Their story is one of survival,
Of enduring the darkest night,
Their will, a testament to revival,
To reclaim their stolen light.
And though the world may turn away,
And justice seems forever delayed,
Their voices will rise, come what may,
In the shadows, in the sun, unafraid.
For the olive trees still stand,
Rooted deep in ancient ground,
A symbol of a once-loved land,
Where peace may yet be found.
So listen to their whispers, soft yet clear,
To the tales of loss and love intertwined,
For in their stories, we may hear,
The truth of a resilient mind.
In the face of a world that may not see,
The Palestinian spirit rises free,
In the rubble, in the refugee,
There lies a hope, a dream, a plea.
By: Vivaan Sethi
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