Where do I begin,

When there's more blood than ink spilled?

Another assembly scribes another resolution,

Just another task on their To-Do list:

A resolution about our right to live.

Forty Nine pieces of evidence,

Presented by scientists and researchers worldwide,

As proof of our humanity,

They commence writing with ink mixed in my people's Blood:

The word "peace" repeats sixteen times,

My friend's age when he was killed at an Israeli checkpoint.

The word "violence" is inscribed eleven times,

The number of screams my mother released,

As they abducted me before her eyes.

The word "civilian" graces the page eight times,

The number of years we waited,

To get a glimpse of light Pink almond blossoms,

On a cold, cloudy February morning in the village.

The word "terrorist" stands in Green,

Resembling my great aunt's olive tree,

Nurtured with her salty tears.

The word "justice" emerges,

As my grandfather rises from his grave,

To bear witness to his murderer's trial in court.

The word "freedom" remains unwritten,

Yet my grandmother whispered it to a fig,

She picked up from Hebron's Brown soil,

With sticky hands coated in fig sap.

The word "occupation" surfaces once,

Only to denote the writer's occupation,

As a government employee.

The word "condemn" overflows the pages,

Its Red hue stains a nurse's blue uniform,

As she lies victim of an airstrike.

The words "international" and "law" are etched,

As White phosphorus transforms my city,

Into a canvas of Gray ash.

The word "death" is scattered here and there,

But the word "martyr" remains concealed.

In their attempt to write "Gaza,"

They deplete their ink,

Just as she exhausted her water, electricity, food, and fuel,

And their resolution pages turn glaring White,

Mirroring the hospital floors now blood-stained.