My Colonial Flag

The world's on fire
We have children for hire

Catastrophe, our middle name
Chaotic in our moment of fame

Dignified death claims our glory
My Palestinian heart's story

I can find room for its self-pity
Its throne above Jerusalem city

Revenge is not my fight
The camera has confused my plight

Your magic box is all you see
And all I can see is me

Here I find my morbid camps
My home's ruins lit by lamps

Fight! Fight! Fight! Hear me chant
Your freedom, the victim of my rant

I do not want your charity
That is not the object of my victory

This false freedom draws my scorn
My colonialized cloak grows thin and worn

For I must beg of you to understand
It is not my wealth nor my land

My humanity is my desire
In this world on fire

The Orchard

Character defines you my boy
The harshness of life is its tool
It tears at you and eats your flesh
But it will birth you anew

Dignity will save you my boy
The wounded soul is its home
It breaks your back and kicks your pride
But it will give you a mountain to stand upon

Forgiveness will shield you my boy
The realm of heaven is its beholder
It makes you shed tears of blood
But it will claim your sincerity

I have lost my children, their mother, and my home
The yaffa oranges have fallen to the ground
The dirt has claimed their unpicked carcasses
As it will yours and mine

But take this with you to the grave my dear son
I swear by the lines that map my brow
If I had known what I know now
The oranges still would not have been picked

For fate is the wielder of many swords
Purpose is its eternal motive
No knowledge can change the past
This leads to my last advice my boy

Courage will take you to where you never knew you needed to be
The sanctuary of this life is its battlefield
Hold fast to your recklessness
For the day will come when you may pick the oranges again