Palestine the ancient olive tree.

 Palestine, an Olive tree, too ancient to uprooted by dementia of ideals, or by any political reinventions of promises, of some promised land.

No book, however sacred, is toxic to life itself, when it lays on its stacked pages, a genocide. 

No paradise can be built of the blood of babies and innocent children, pregnant mothers,  

No voices could be received as prayers in the ears of any god on Shabaths, 

because as you break your Challah, each morsel has the cries of famished children, men and women, their parched throats, dry like the desert, eating sand to stiffle the pangs and pain, each tick of the clock in these frail cachexic bodies is long as Death.

We all might somehow fold our Humanity, into smaller and smaller folds to arrange and fit it in our conscience,  sufficiently enough for us to sleep through each night, only to awake again to the unethical reality, perpetuating each day.

We know, we should raise our cries louder and louder , 

cries, that will cut through endless debates over real decisions,  

cries and protest loud enough to defend against the storms of indescriptable brutality against a people, a culture, a right , 

fair enough to stand as equals, to stand where it is just - where Justice is Justice.

No matter who turns their back, no matter how they disguise their disgusting motives.

We all know in the heart of our heart, that, if we turn our backs,  its the Democracy of Life that's  sacrificed. 

Today them,  tomorrow us.

It will all come in different forms, arguments, set of neo regulations to rob and deprive us of who we are. 

Breaching the very fundamentals of our rights in front of our eyes. 

Robbing our thoughts, 

preventing our thinking , firmly tightening the rings in the chains, asphyxing our Freedom. 

A Freedom precious as our lives.

The water we drink, will be what they'll authorize. 

And what we'll drink wont be to quench our thirst, but, to shrivel us to our bones, 

and each one of us will watch each other die, eyes wide, open mouth, wordless, to be broken like twigs and warm the furnaces of a few greedy men. 

Their greed greater than the devil's, Hilter is only a choirboy when compared to them.

All , only to rewrite the same History of Brutality, the Brutality over power, control through hatred - ridiculous enough, to think of them as immortals.

Luckily, Death, has its own rules, even for them.

For what they bury now under the tons of bombs, wont and cannot kill the immortality It will resurge, even from the oppressing arms of the darkest Angel,

And once again Olives trees will sprout in Palestine from the very burnt ground of this injured planet.

Written on 12 july 2016, modified today

 All i have is this body

Within which i run, i hop, i struggle,  i hide, i play, i stay quiet,  i wait. 

Inside,  so many things roll, turn, twist

Inside so many things happens, some in mysterious way. The ways the woods are engorged in the silence of the faint early morning light.

As, moments pure as a prayer, connects to the wholeness to Life. To existence,  to the emanating beauty,  to memories of having glimpsed into some kind of heaven.

Witnessing, witnessing as learning, witnessing something coil metaphysically out of me, out of the body, and goes quietly through the stillness of things, to watch and greet other kind of silences, silences of the flowers,  of the leaves and creepers, of the clouds, of the water in the pond, carefully,  not to disturb the dragonflies,  the ants, the frogs, the fields.

Then,  it returns and settles inside my body again, feeling the freshness of all it has visited.

It trickles into the blood in my veins givingan understanding,  of how, for a moment Whatever surrounded me was also me.this body, so inseparable to something so larger, so large tgat the universe could only be so small, so large, i cannot see its end.