A poem, from Palestine’s lost generation

Photo Credit: Unknown

I find myself

In trance, I am searching through the foundations,
of my beginnings.
Sifting through pages of records, spellbound,
probing for clues of my origin.
The lineages struggle of my eventual life.
Slowly breaking,
The original web of my existence.
Only pieces remain.
of a fragmented past.

A deep Mexican descent begging to be revealed,
lost to the illnesses of time.
Domestic devastation, tearing the threads apart.
Seeded anger. Bound for eventual,
A vanished history. Fallen,
to the sickness of assiduous mentality.
Of unwavering ideals.
If only not lost, who would we be?

And the near lost lineage of Palestinian bloodline
Life robbed over 47 years,
at the hands of our present day oppressors.
The land of my ancestors, I’ll never know.
Simply the faint narratives,
of thick olive groves, manned
at the hands of my great grandfathers.
Buried sensory details of the salt lined air of the
Only memories of the rubble remains.
From the refugees camps,
of which I came.

The pages I flip are white with defeat
No further have I stepped, than before
My efforts
Neither wavering, nor faulting.
Of which carry my desire
For understanding.
Perilous appreciation of the spirit,
is of No wealth;
to the ignorance of the uninquisitive.
Oh, but know!
the blood in my veins
will forever reach for curiosity.

A child lost,
to generations displaced;
is but a child found.
To a generation,




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