Riviera on a Bed of Ashes #8

Ramadan

They fast in the feast of starvation.

They stopped for prayer, but the echoing sounds of bombs shook their feet —

The roll of yonder burst their ears — They cried "Inshallah," "Allahu Akbar," but God slept through the terror.

467 days and the stench of death reeks the nostrils of the Olive Green.

No shroud is enough to cover the remains — Babies, grandparents, mothers, fathers — Those who once called this desolate land home.

No one came to the people's rescue, despite their cries for peace.

The Court of Justice is powerless —The police have no jurisdiction, their handcuffs rusted to their uniforms. Blue helmets no longer bear authority; their presence is but a whisper in the wind.

A riviera, they vow to build,

on the carcasses of innocence.

But let them build their riviera —

History will scream through the brutal cries

of the children piled beneath their feet.

Another ceasefire shattered.

Another wave of missiles descends like confetti.

But this is no celebration.

This is no mystified fireworks meant to bring joy and smiles.

This is death — And the plague cheers with delight.

What will become of the Olive Green?

Who will rise to save them?

Must they linger in torment,

Waiting for judgment before their saviour breathes peace into their souls?

Inshallah, Allahu Akbar, God sleeps, while the babies burn to ash.