By: Ezzat Goushegir
These are not drops of rain falling from the sky,
This is fire, scraps of metal raining down
These are not dandelions, or butterflies circling in the air
These are children’s torn clothes
Strands of hair floating in the air
There are tall palm trees in the Middle East
The trees have now been decapitated
The men in the south are strong
Now their skulls rest on broken telegraph polls
Like scarecrows in a barren field
The women of the south are brave
Now you must look for their torn limbs
On the mounds of the scorched bricks of dilapidated homes
What is this on the earth, in the air and water?
Raw, bloody scraps of meat?