Brilliant piece of poetry submitted by a sister.
Today while making Iftari, a sudden image struck me,
As I fried the Pakorey,
And brewed the tea.
Somewhere, a boy sits under a tree,
Staring at his mud caked hands; holding a bruised knee.
And the sound of a gunshot echoes again,
And he gets up and runs, forgetting his pain.
Back there in Homs, clinging to dear life,
Who knows who fasts, and still survives?
I shake my head and set the plates,
The spoons and glasses, and the dates,
And as I pour cold water in a jug,
I am reminded of the water shared, and a cherished hug,
From a Palestinian girl, some years ago.
Through a forced smile behind tears that flowed,
She held my hands just to say:
“Do remember us, whenever you pray.”
And finally when the call for prayer is heard,
I gaze at the table set, with a vision now blurred.
How can I stuff myself with scrumptious feasts,
When another Muslim child, lies starved, in this heat?
As his helpless mother rocks him to sleep,
And in her heart, silently weeps,
For all hungry mouths to feed, five,
And another son who could not survive.
While we look up deals on “All you can eat,”
Not many out there can afford a treat.
So have a heart, when you bloat at Iftar,
For those who fast in the midst of a war.
Hold on, make prayer, and raise your hands,
If Ramadan can’t unite us, then nothing can.
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