Tell the world—
there is a place where children sleep
to the lullaby of drones,
where dawn breaks not with birdsong,
but with sirens and silence
too heavy for sky.
Tell the world—
of olive trees burnt before they could bear fruit,
of kites that once danced over rooftops
now grounded in rubble,
colors buried beneath ash and grief.
Here, mothers rock absence in their arms,
fathers build hope from broken stone,
and lovers trace each other’s faces
as if memorizing maps
that may vanish by morning.
The sea still breathes,
a stubborn witness—
cradling the shore with the patience of centuries,
whispering stories to the wind
no wall can stop.
And still, they rise—
with bread and dignity,
with poems scrawled on scraps of ruined notebooks,
with hands that mend and feed and bless
even as the world looks away.
Tell the world—
Gaza is not rubble.
Gaza is not silence.
Gaza is heartbeat,
is song,
is fire that refuses to be extinguished.
Tell the world—
and do not forget