Baby Martyr

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I’m six and seven
And up to eleven,
Then I’m an adult
In an Israeli court
My hands tied in the back of my back
He comes to me with a punch and a sack.
He covers my head with a hood of Zionist stench
Though my belly is tough, it will not flinch.
The noise is loud and pierces my brain.
My pathetic shirt hangs proud with a fresh blood stain.
My poor mother is worried sick, I’m sure.
She burried my brother before me. She will endure.
And my dad too, depression got him in the end
With no home, no land, no olive trees to tend.
I’m in here for days on end
Or is it months or even years, I no longer comprehend.
The noise is too loud
And I can feel the shroud.
He beats me again today
Then its another’s turn to play.
I’m broken now, but I’ll not confess.
I’ll leave my body, let those murdering bastards clean up the mess.
A few more thoughts before I go
I am human. This you must know.
You’d never know it `cause I’m tough as a rocks I throw.
I had hoped to grow a mustache so fine.
Maybe marry Muna. I’d be hers and she’d be mine
Maybe be a father….our children free in Palestine.
by Susan Abulhawa

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