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.
