The Glorious Wins

I was called on a cold night,

I was dragged before my child,

I was sentenced before my wife,

I went blind.

I was holding my son’s toy

I was ceasing my tears inside

I was trying to laugh against

The inevitable end ahead.

It all seemed so scary,

The trials, lawyers, the glory:

None were given,

None ever showed up.

Glory is another story I wish not to speak of.

It was a cold night when I was called;

I was beaten with boots so dirty,

I was abused by the so called man of law.

I am a Palestinian, that was my fatal flaw.

That was my glorious blow;

A story I wish not to speak of.

“Out,” shouted the man with the gun.

“But my baby,” I ran out of words.

“To hell,” he said. To hell I went.

In hell I stayed. Literal hell on earth.

A breeze of torture slapped me in the face,

A breeze of bullets stung my chest,

A breeze of memories wiped my tears,

I was there on my knees,

Like a man so glorious against the world.

A story I wish not to unfold.

“Speak,” spitted the rifle or the man holding it,

There was no difference.

Both could torture, booth could kill, both could swear.

I felt the lightning, I felt the volts, I felt the electricity we were deprived of.

It ran through my veins like blood.

“250,” or 300 or more,

I could not see,

I was not sure.

Screams of others in the cells next door;

I knew I was not alone.

The skull was open,

A fountain of memories was gone.

My teeth were broken,

No tooth fairy around.

I had to survive for my child.

For my wife.

The man or the rifle,

I couldn’t tell which,

Broke my bones, broke my head.

For my child, for my wife,

They were all dead.

The man or the rifle one of them killed

Everything that was left.

And I was shot; I joined my friends;

Fellows from the next cells.

 I stood still lying on the floor:

One man against the world.

One man won.


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