On the road of olive flowers
For the Palestinian writers

The olive trees on the side of the road
Bloom the morning flowers
The light from thousands of years
Comes back and shines
Each of our footprint

We walk under the olive trees shade
Under the shadow of the muzzle
Under the shade of the cloud of words
Covering us

Together we raise our voices
The rhythm of the deaths
Without funerals
In the historical witching hours
The rhythm of the bloody tricks
In the shadow of the newly painted cathedral
And the mass outfit
That has not cleaned of the stain
Drying in the bruising sky

But the rhythm of poetry
Echoes in the invisible tomb
On top of a hopeless hill
Flush on the hundred-year-old olive trees
Flush on the windows
Open up the sadness of a thousand years
Flush on the candle fires last night
On the bedside of someone dying
And a pair of unmovable eyes
That is not Satan watching

We have yet to reach the end of the road
Yet to reach the end of olive flower season
Everything is drown in the war
Our poems are soaked in blood
And around us
The printers are still running
As if nothing happened
To keep printing the Bibles.

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