Isn't it a fierce dog attacking an old
Gazan lady? Isn't it telling the story
Of this stolen bereft land, and its
Brave people's endless misery?

Isn't it supposed to defend the weak,
But wicked men turned it into
A demon, tearing her flesh apart
And shattering her old memory?

Isn't this reminding us of the Nakba,
And how a shameless lie fooled
The world, but not those barefoot
Men standing up against the fury?

I don't want to leave my house,
She said, I don't want to be like my
Kinsmen who once fled the fire, only
To become scattered, and weary.

I don't want to leave my land,
She said, I don't want to be buried
In a stranger's tomb, for only my
Soil can heed my sorrowful story.

Let it crunch my arm, let it growl and
Howl, for it doesn't know who's right
Or wrong, nor can it grasp that I hereby
Will live to recount this same story.

I am here to stay, I am here to breathe,
I am here to die where my roots
Can reach the depths of the earth
And my blood can water the scenery.

Though it has already watered Jabalia,
As I laid down for a whole night,
Moaning and bleeding, when they
Laughed, leaving without hurry.

Heedless - they are - of the way we
Cling to our homeland so tightly it makes
Their tanks and bulldozers quake
And shake like a High Brown Fritillary.

Poor stray misfits pulling a trained
Animal to its shame, and theirs, and
Seeking fame like a murderer pursues,
In slaughter, a filthy infamous glory.