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.
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Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Offline) - Published: April 21st, 2025 00:08
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, RSM0812
Offline)
Comments3
great write a pleasure to read
Thanks 🙏🙏
most welcome
So many hidden feelings exposed in metaphor that remain hidden beneath the surface. So poetically said the sadness and tragedy below tranquil images painted in ink. This is a piece of art and a fave
I favd a few poems today but this one is my favorite. Every line has an image. Every word evokes an emotion. What a great write.
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