As 'Palestine' Rises

"What do I say to my children?" I am a fumbling midwife of grief, collecting prose to expose our solemn soliloquies. It's unheroic, mostly impotent in the art. So here's a poem to start.

To carry our dreams of unity far
We must meet all people 
Wherever they are 
However they learn 
Whenever they wake
From the illusions,
From beliefs they misplaced 

And the day that they see
They’ll cease to be 
Whoever they were
Before they were free

But that process of knowing
Can take years to get going 
The path is not clear
You need courage 
To face fear 

It’s a perilous trail 
That promises pain
Too risky
Too lonely
To trade comfort for ‘shame’ 
And didactic questions 
From colleagues, or kin
Excelled in ‘the art’ 
Of calling out ‘sin’

So they live and die fighting 
A battle inside  
Warm lights, all obscured
There’s no candle to guide 
Through the funhouse of mirrors 
Which they break, with abandon
In the mind’s tricky quest 
To sever hearts 
From their reason

With no glory in virtue 
Freedom works in the dark
To dismantle the wheels
Which keep whipping this cart
Of injustice 
Through snaking dark valleys
Of rude, righteous conquest

As the drumbeat of power beats
And repeats
From lofted angles of ruling seats  
Who devise new Crusaders, invaders
False saviors 
Take possession by prayers
And sell arms to the slayers 
To execute children 
And design their erasure 

They starve wounds 
And shrivel wombs
Of Men, Women, 
Mothers, Fathers
Sisters and Brothers 
For that matter 

Does it matter?
The size and shape of a human heart?
When it’s torn apart? 
By shrapnel?
Meant for concrete?
Is their work complete?  
Yet? 

Yet.  
 
Who has won, so to speak, this material game 
As ‘Palestine’ rises to ethereal frame
A vessel of cruelty
Stacking victims of grief
In death, we find –  at least there’s relief
In denial, we find – our existence has reaped

***

The moment we face 
Is to dream of what’s more
And rise from the rubble 
As a Phoenix would soar 
Born from fire
Born from blaze
From immutable rage –

And refuse the Wrath they require of us  
Tools that they use so widely to thrust  
New agendas of ‘order’ or ‘civility’ 
Never asking: 
Would I want ‘Them’ to do This 
Unto Me?  
[Indeed, Pride and Greed make them deaf 
To this query]  

Ascending from ashes
We carry a torch
An alchemical flame 
That flips fealty from force
The adage once lost
That only love matters
Is felt deep in all hearts 
That have thoroughly shattered

After all, even souls once sold 
Can turn from metal to gold
If hope expects them to – 
If we hoist clear mirrors
That reflect them, too

Here’s the answer, here’s the art
Hearts forged in sorrow 
Can’t be torn apart 
They grow louder together 
And beat steady, 
At the center 

And even if people haven’t seen yet
The truth so apparent
We must love them, regardless 
With open arms to their progress
Because one day, in some way
Everyone will have always been against this.