Triptych, a poem in three parts: She Holds the Flame

Dera Eneremadu weaves longing, loss and defiance into the fabric of land

In the shadow of ruins, our roots still grow,
Through the winds of despair, our spirits glow.
From the ashes of loss, we weave our song,
In the hearts of the oppressed, love stays strong.

In the midst of pain, our hope takes flight,
We shatter their rusted chains in the dead of the night.
O land of olive and ancient stone, we shall remain,
For even in exile, you flow through our veins.

The faint scent of za’atar floats in the air,
A scent of earth that lingers but isn’t there.
Children trace patterns in the dust,
A tatreez of longing, so their culture is not lost.

Lines are drawn, erased, then drawn anew,
By careless hands, where ink bleeds through.
And the Jordan weeps in crimson tide,
Bearing the scars of those who died.

And as their rifles rip through our flesh,
The keffiyeh still wraps our wounds: a mother’s warm caress.
The wind carries our cries, tangled in black and white threads,
To faraway lands where children are fed.

The ‘-ists’ they shout in the media breed dread,
Yet we weave our strength through the tears we have shed.
Patterns of longing, sewn through strife,
A legacy embroidered into the fabric of life.

The land does not choose who bleeds

In the shadow of silence, our roots took flame,
From ashes and smoke, we carved out a name.
Through the weight of exile, we learned to stand,
In the voice of the hunted, we shaped this land.

From the dust of bones, our language rose,
Letters reborn where the desert wind blows.
O land of figs and ancient breath, we remain,
Bound by a promise, bloodline, and name.

The scent of challah drifts in the air,
A sweetness that softens the lines we bear.
Children draw stars in the Tel Aviv sand,
Stories of prophets etched by their hand.

Maps are drawn, redrawn, and blurred again,
By hands unsure of paper and pen.
And the Jordan sighs in a twilight hue,
Carrying songs both old and new.

And as sirens wail through shattered nights,
We wrap our fears in blue and white.
The wind lifts prayers from stone and thread,
To distant lands where our martyrs bled.

They call us settlers with borrowed breath,
But we’ve walked this soil through fire and death.
We speak in tongues once silenced by strife,
A legacy etched into the scroll of life.

The olive tree does not ask who waters it

In the shadow of ruins, our children cry,
In the dust of exile, our old songs die.
Blood coats the olives, pools in the sand,
Two tongues of sorrow, one scorched land.

From broken homes, we rise in smoke,
Names on walls, a breath, a choke.
O land of prophets, graves, and flame,
We die repeating the same old claim.

Za’atar and challah burn in the air,
Homesick for soil no longer there.
Children trace stars and patterns in dust,
Raised on ruins and taught not to trust.

Borders are inked with iron and flame,
Scriptures echo but call no name.
The Jordan runs red from both its shores,
Each martyr haunting the other’s wars.

And as bullets tear through flesh and prayer,
We bury hope in the same despair.
The keffiyeh and flag both stain with grief,
Wrapped ‘round the silence of disbelief.

They speak of chosen, of promised light,
But faith without mercy blinds the sight.
We stand at the edge, both bloodied and worn,
Not to conquer but to mourn.