For all the fairy lights and food,
the Holy Month
feels different this year, no?
I wake before dawn conscious of
the sky keeping quiet, just for me,
while I eat under the cover of darkness.
I am decaffeinated and tired
and sick of the news roll telling me
more land has been stolen;
more bombs have been dropped;
more homes have been raided;
more lives have been lost.
Empty stomachs
mirror empty blood vessels,
lifeless hands raised in prayer.
I break my fast
on dates with questionable origins,
and I pray to God under His moon
on yet more stolen land
that is His first, then ours.
(When did it become theirs?)
In this time I cannot sleep;
and I wish it was only because
my nights are spent in worship;
I am privileged,
yet it is all I can do to keep moving,
to greet the day,
although the motherland,
still beneath yesterday’s moon,
won’t get to see this sun.
