To Hala

For Hala Raed Nayef Al-Sharafi

Oh, Hala– little martyr:
It was in this, your 13th year, the Zionists, the
Whining genocidaires, the ones that lately slew
Your country-kin, and friends,
Came finally for you.

A woman in a city handed me a placard with
Your name– said mothers, like herself,
Must take a stand, in times like these–
And other names on other cards, and most, dear, you
Were older than– three thousand, I am told.

And did you like to play at football,
Hala dear, in Gaza city streets? I’m told they
Played there once, they did, but do not anymore–
But maybe you did once, you did, with other names,
On other cards, which are no longer there.

I feel as though I know you, Hala–
We are just alike. In all the ways in which we surely
Aren’t. I rich, you poor; I grown, you gone too soon
And I will go on living, Hala– you, I fear, will not–
But i will know your name–

(I’ve writ it down).
And they will lay your blood down, Hala, dear,
On every hand but theirs–
First they will call you terrorist,
Jihadi (“One who Struggles?” And if you did, whose fault was that?).

And when it is quite clear– these children
were not fedayeen–
Then they will say you were the human shield,
Your death justified, or, at very least,
Somebody else’s fault.

But you knew, as the blow came down,
Whose fault it was, poor dear.
And we will know. And we will know.
And we will not forget.
And we will not forget.