Somewhere in Gaza,
there is a Palestinian girl named Sara
whose father has been martyred—
just like me.

Somewhere in Gaza,
there is a Palestinian girl named Sara
whose father has been martyred
with Ramallah’s almonds for eyes—
just like me.

Somewhere in Gaza,
there is a Palestinian girl named Sara
whose father has been martyred
with Ramallah’s loz for eyes and
Jenin’s olives for skin—
just like me.

Somewhere in Gaza,
there was a Palestinian girl
named Sara—

and Hind
and Nour
and Tara
and Mariam
and Layla
and Dalia
and Lina
and Yasmin
and Rania
and Hind and Hind and Hind and Hind and Hind and Hind and Hind—

just like us.

And I suppose,
fundamentally,
that is the beauty
of a Palestinian;

for when the world
pours salt
upon our wounds,
ploughs our fields with
missiles and tanks— we bake bread.

We are
connoisseurs
of living;
hungry
for life.