I was inspired to write this poem during the summer while spending time in my grandmother’s living room listening to her personal recollections of Palestine.
Stories from Home
My grandmother tells me stories.
Sweet, sweet stories of the past,
A holy land so golden,
Forever it could last
My grandmother tells me stories,
Like the branches of an olive tree, intertwined.
Honeyed summers of harvest behind her,
The lingering sweetness of the Jaffa clementines
My grandmother tells me stories,
Over and over – serenity, belonging and bliss.
I find myself longing,
Yearning for a home to miss.
My grandmother tells me stories,
Her laughter spilling softly over steaming cups of tea
I smile back – yet I catch myself wondering
Would that ever be me?
My grandmother tells me stories of devotion, of a united love so deep.
A people ripped from the roots of the weeping land they tried to keep,
She sings to me childhood dreams built on sacred grounds,
Lullabies shattered beneath relentless siren sounds.
My grandmother tells me stories, and horrors echo behind us on the TV.
My fingers trace the past on her palms, her voice trembles,
And my heart is left torn between
A paradise I have never touched,
And a nightmare I have only seen.
