We'll put up feigned politicians / And their fake promises instead
In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen
Who do I tell, sir? The walls do not listen, The roads do not answer back
The cream colored bowl held the steaming, almost translucent yellow broth with traces of white, garnished by an array of green onions slashed in an angle.
The rain began at dusk, its cold fingers tracing the cracked panes of the house like an unwelcome visitor. By midnight, the storm had grown wild, wind howling through the trees, rattling the fragile bones of the dwelling. I stood before the door, my hand trembling on the tarnished brass handle.
Tell me I am not a house without exits. Leave
It’s been so long since we last spoke that I don’t think I can talk to you without confessing something. There you were, standing before me
I see her now, but not in the way I have always seen her—through the lens of service, of duty, of roles—but as a woman whose edges were softened long before I learned her name
He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible
Who do I tell, sir? The walls do not listen, The roads do not answer back
In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen
We'll put up feigned politicians / And their fake promises instead
Tell me I am not a house without exits. Leave
The rain began at dusk, its cold fingers tracing the cracked panes of the house like an unwelcome visitor. By midnight, the storm had grown wild, wind howling through the trees, rattling the fragile bones of the dwelling. I stood before the door, my hand trembling on the tarnished brass handle.
The cream colored bowl held the steaming, almost translucent yellow broth with traces of white, garnished by an array of green onions slashed in an angle.
It’s been so long since we last spoke that I don’t think I can talk to you without confessing something. There you were, standing before me
I see her now, but not in the way I have always seen her—through the lens of service, of duty, of roles—but as a woman whose edges were softened long before I learned her name
He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible
I woke up with the taste of blood in my mouth
