Last Supper-Gaza

In the name of the Father, Son and of the Holy Spirit

the Red Sea parted and enemies counted their footfalls

on the graves of our forefathers.

Since then, milk and honey haven't flowed

only bombs have made music

as we walk on egg shells.

We preserve the locks of hair our daughters left,

and remember our sons by their pictures

we waited for their burial, drunk by the unholy passion of pain

their tiny bodies we held, close to our chest, all night

to not let the maggots feed on them,

their graves do not know their names

as the apricot trees that gave them shade, have wilted

at the enemy's commands,

for a few pieces of silver, they have plotted against

our husbands, who will be nailed

to their crosses soon.

The full moon bleaches the blood 

on the battlefields

as their cup runs over,

they dip their pens in it, everyday

and write deadlier decrees of death

while we fatten ourselves, innocent lambs,

to fall prey to a landmine or a bomb

Please do not betray us with a kiss of peace

that was promised to us at birth,

the sheep of our flock have been scattered

as our shepherd won't come to lead us

Death is our final Resurrection.

Picture credit: Vivek Vilasini at the Kochi Muziris Biennale