Ata Hindi works in the fields of international law and human rights, with a focus on Palestine, and writes poetry. His poems can be found at https://theshadesofolive.wordpress.com/.

 

Martyr

Your soul is heavy, and our arms,

tired, but we carry on, over our shoulders,

we carry it to the angels,

before it parts ways with your touch,

so we must go on…

 

With the cracks in our skin,

your features may blur, we may forget the tone

of your skin, your hair, your eyes, when we remember…

 

…but your legend remains with us forever…

 

Return

Chin up, raise your head high like

they told you, during the key display, hanging

each one of them pressed up

against the other like romance, from

the battered up, worn out folds, tell

them, tell them like they did, tell

them…

 

“I am from here”…

 

Tell them, do not resist

your own resistance, tell

them, “this soil is mine like theirs,” that

the spirits have driven your own hands —

yes, you are a monster –

a savage –

you are possessed –

if your tongue, your name,

your tone, bring them fear, well so be

it, raise your head high like the key display and

let them be afraid, when you tell them

“I am from here”…

Do not let the doves fool you like the hawk’s prey, there

is no shame in your love sewn into your checkered

scarf that runs forever —

 

Tell them — “this is my home…your square hands, could

not have built these beautiful arches”…

 

Tell them — “this is my home…

and I am from here”…

 

To the Edge of the World

“Come,” she says…

“…take my hand, we will ride to the edge of the world, hold my hand once more…”

Who wouldn’t oblige, to the requests of angels?

She takes me, floating over the shores,

vertically into the skies, higher, skimming the feather clouds with the tips of our fingers,

“hold on, hold on just a bit longer, we have not reached there yet…

“wrap your fingers in mine and ride with me, to the edge of the world…”

Who would refuse a sunset over chilled seas?

Who would decline a first sight of constellations that one has only heard about?

I wrap my fingers in hers, she takes me flying between the stars,

vertically into the seas, lower, tracing the sea beds with the tips of our toes,

“Just a little more time,” I say, “let’s not go there, it is too close…”

It is too close…

I take her hand, she makes circles out of lines,

taking me along,

and I respectfully oblige, to her two moons…

She draws hearts on her maps, I color them in, connecting them in our tracks,

“we are almost there,” she says with her paradise,

“we are almost there…take my hand and we will ride to the edge of the world…”

I wrap my fingers in hers, read the stories in the lines of her hands,

and recite poems with my fingertips,

to hide under the memories of her skin…

 

The world is round…the world is round…

perhaps, I must let go, but I will find my way around,

and ask her to hold my hand, so that I can take her to the edge of the world…

 

 

 

 

We Were Always Doves

…here we are, my love…

two doves, time has come to take flight,

for the sun, for the eternities of lights

about the pillow-clouds,

to quench our thirst for unlimited sunsets…

 

…we have flown over oceans and skyscrapers,

gliding endlessly over the moon,

never question, neither the hourglass

nor the calendars…

never once…

 

…we were always doves

with our backs against the blue skies,

our wings over the straw-clouds,

over the roses, tulips and lilies,

that stretch lifetimes…

 

…before we part for different sunsets

I beg of you to let me fly once again…

I beg of you…

My love,

My dove.

 

Aleppo

The devils came through here, and stopped by the young boy…

They took his makeshift ball and told him — this is no more.

Where are your loved ones, your caregivers? they asked.

I wished them good night, last winter. They are playing in the snow.

 

…why did you come? asked the boy.

To make way, because he is coming, they said.

…who is coming? asked the boy.

He who let you breathe, they responded. Are you not grateful?

…but God gave me breath, said the boy.

Yes, this is true, but he let you use it…he let you breathe.

Just like he let you play with your ball.

 

…and who is he, asked the boy.

You will know when he comes, they responded

…we separated the souls from the bodies,

so that they may dance in the sky and make it grey for him

…we made this into ruins, and turned your paradise into hell,

so that he feels welcome upon his arrival