Salt of the Earth
In the cradle of dust where olive trees mourn,
Where lullabies fade and dawn feels torn,
Gaza lies shattered—its silence profound,
Each breath a rebellion, each heartbeat unbound.
Children of cinder once danced in the street,
Now chase the echo of a missing beat.
Mothers wear hunger like threadbare clothes,
And dream of fields where the barley still grows.
Salt once shimmered like stardust in palms—
Harvested from sea, from sweat, from calms.
Not just seasoning, not mere grain—
But the crystal of labor, of joy and of strain.
Forged over centuries, by hands grown old,
Each flake a story silently told.
Born from the sweat of a thousand years,
From sun-baked brows and unshed tears.
This salt—ancestral, pure, and proud—
Gathered by toil, not given by cloud.
It lined their tables, preserved their bread,
The sacred result of the lives they led.
But now the salt lies crushed in the sand,
Ground under boots that don’t understand.
Its luster dimmed beneath fury and fire,
Erased by conquest, by greed, by empire.
If only a whisper could soften the sky,
Still the thunder where the innocent die.
If only maps were drawn by tears,
Not by empires echoing ancient fears.
What faith is this that fuels the flame?
What name survives when none dare name
The childless cradle, the empty spoon,
The song unsung beneath the moon?
Do not offer flags for the wound of a child.
Do not argue borders where grief runs wild.
Let the world speak not in parts,
But in the rhythm of breaking hearts.
There are no victors where soil runs red,
No justice found in the silent dead.
Only the salt remains, quiet and clear—
A witness, ancient, that never chose fear.
It fed the Christian, the Muslim, the Jew,
The stranger, the seeker, the soldier too.
It never asked what banner you bore—
Only whispered; Live. Then live some more.
Let power be broken by the weight of truth.
Let justice rise—not cruel, but couth.
Let sorrow not teach us to harden our skin,
But to love more fiercely what lies within.
Forgiveness, like water, must flow where it can,
Not forced, but chosen, again and again.
And peace—may it be not a word we declare,
But a table rebuilt with enough food to share.
For salt is not conquest.
And hunger no crime.
And hope is not hers or his—
But time’s.
So let not silence be sold as peace,
Let not memory twist or cease.
Instead, let us gather, not armed but bare,
With hands to plant and hearts to care.
May the dawn that follows smoke and screams
Be built on bread, on salt, on dreams.
One voice. One plea. One world restored—
Not for revenge...
but for what was before.
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