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Thursday, July 31, 2014


The olive tree

An old olive tree on the mountain
my leaves are gone, roots uprooted,
land snatched from under my feet,
unattended, I’ve been left to die.

From where I am, I can hear
thunderous sounds of  bomb blasts
wailing of mothers who have lost their babies
desperate cries of little ones

From where I am, I can see
dark clouds, ashes, burning houses,
shattered, charred bodies of children
their teddy bear still in arms

From where I am, I can smell
blood, fire, smoke, dust
fear of other, hate for other
little they know, they’re all one.

Children of Jacob, followers of Moses
Jews, Christians, and Muslims
they were my branches, my leaves , my fruit
now, alas! they are my enemies.

(by Asma Warsi © July 2014)

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