Two Poems from Gaza, April 2025

by Sahar Rabah

FOOTSTEPS RUNNING AWAY FROM THEMSELVES

Rapid under the feet of children who
grew up too soon
and changed their shoes
and their features
in a hurry

Time was rushing
like the ambulances
struggling to run after explosions

In the streets that tear their clothes
and the birds that change their shapes

There is death on both sides
and death is stuck in the air
in the lines for water
in the loaf of bread
in the smell of blood

in our tattered clothes
in the bitterness of neighing
in the brokenness of the heart

In the eyes of women whose desired beauty
the color of their lips
and their clouds drenched with hopes
were stolen by war

Time was rushing
to nothingness
in the city that was swallowed by the sea
and cast us out like fish
to eat ourselves on the beaches

She left us to the hovering plane
to unleash on us its stray dogs and rabid bullets

The war left us no safe footpath

Here the mother prayed with tears
for her child to return from his long play
but he never returned

Here a family moved from sleep to the radio
Here we don’t know what to say
as a farewell to the pieces
Here the tent’s flesh melted in the fire

All that remains of us
are our forgotten heartbeats
like crimes

We fear that if they rise
the plane will be able to hear them

I LISTEN TO HER QUESTION

and gently wipe her tear-filled eyes.

And then the city asks
about the cause of her suffering:
When will this punishment end?

And she breaks before me
like a butterfly whose wings
have been burned.

All that’s left is this wound
that widens at the end of the night,
and a cryptic answer stuck
in a forgotten child’s mouth
beneath the rubble.

There between the bullet holes
in my heart.
Many birds live there,
Willingly building their nests
in a city crushed by war.

Birds memorize
the names of martyrs,
hover over the funerals,
water the flowers in the cemetery,
and guard the tears as they fall
like a heavy rain on a mother’s cheeks.

Here is the question:
A wound.
A wound without a bandage.

And the answer:
A shard of glass with sharp edges
that has no mercy on the heart.

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SAHAR RABAH graduated from Al-Quds Open University with a degree in English Language and Literature. She writes poetry, essays, and short fiction in Arabic and English. Born and raised in Al Maghazi Camp in Gaza, she is a teacher, translator, editor, and interpreter. Her poems have appeared on LitHub, The Markaz Review, Vox Populi, and Raseef22.