The sky is not the sky in Gaza—
it is a hand that drops fire,
a shadow that swallows the sun.
The night is not the night in Gaza—
it is sirens and silence,
a mother whispering names of the lost.
The streets are not streets in Gaza—
they are graves waiting to be filled,
classrooms turned to dust,
memories buried beneath concrete.
A child wakes, but to what?
No school, no home, no father’s arms.
Only the endless echo of war,
only the question: Why?
And the world?
It counts bodies but not names,
rebuilds walls but not lives,
watches the sky fall and calls it defense.
But Gaza still breathes,
still writes, still sings—
because even under the rubble,
hope refuses to die.