They draw and redraw maps with blood,
Carving borders where rivers once ran free,
Splitting tongues, sundering names,
Turning soil sacred with memory to dust.
Steel-tipped quills scratch on parchment,
While swords etch deeper lines in flesh.
They measure land in miles and gold,
Never in lives, never in loss.
A compass spins, a nation fractures,
Names rewritten in foreign hands.
Lines that never should have been,
Lines that never fade.
Recent Works
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...
On a cold and misty autumn night, as the wind swept across the hills of Northfield, Minnesota, the students of St. Olaf College bustled through their evening routines—some cramming for exams in the library, others laughing in the warmth of Buntrock Commons. Yet, up on...