Falastine

 My earth, a tapestry of olive scars, Where whispers of pomegranate prayers rise, Echo through alleys veiled in tear-washed bars, Beneath a sky etched with war's grim skies.

Children, their laughter shrapnel-shred, Eyes paint battlescapes where dreams should roam, Huddle in shells, where hope lies half-dead, Counting not stars, but bombs finding their home.

Mothers, their brows etched with ancient pain, Weave lullabies from sirens' mournful cry; their hands, a fortress where love still reigns, Shelter young heroes, watching freedom die.

Olive branches, once a peaceful dove's plume, Now stand, defiant, stark against the blast, Roots deep in memories, refusing to consume The whispers of a future, shadows grasped.

On cobbled streets, graffiti dreams defy, Murals bloom where rockets kiss the night, A symphony of colors paints the sky, Where phoenix hope takes flight.

Though my soil bears battles' grim caress, And walls bear witness to bitter strife, My spirit, like the olive, will not bend or confess, My heart, a drumbeat echoes 'til there's life.

So let the world hear this whispered plea, From ancient stones where prophets walked this land, Let peace unfurl its olive canopy, And bind these wounds with mercy's gentle hand.

For Palestine, though scarred, still dreams in bloom, Where hope unfurls, a banner in the sun, A song of resilience, echoing from the tomb Until the war-torn tapestry becomes undone.