Gaza\'s smoke. Israel\'s iron.
Their light still cuts my formless night.
I trace the mind\'s fractured melody—
My heart, a smuggler\'s boat,
Silent past every line drawn,
Where home is just a graveyard\'s guess,
No hymns but the wind\'s slow tune,
No justice but the moon\'s mute glow.
And the seagull—always the seagull—
Laughing at jets that scream like boys
Trying to steal its sky.