Resistance Poetry
Published in

Resistance Poetry

Just Another Day In a Genocide

For Palestine…

Dark gray metal and bullet holes
and you can’t walk on the streets,
the wailing and moaning
and the mothers cries,
the soldiers laughter as they smoke another cigarette.
And the rape and the slaughter
just another day in a genocide.
And why does the mournful mother cry?
Her young son has too much bravado,
and it will be just another bullet to the head.
And see the broken bodies piled high
just another day in a genocide.
The blood soaked ground cries out its stench,
life doesn’t matter
just another day in a genocide.
And the money pours in, its a death trap
and the slaughter grows — blown off limbs everywhere
while the tears flow down wrecked faces
and they wonder where God is
in all the broken down mess.
And just another day in a genocide.
Will her milk run dry while she looks into her starving babe’s eyes?
And a little bit of her dies each day,
its a messed up world
and just another day in a genocide.
Why doesn’t anyone hear their cries?
Take a walk in their shoes through hell, and pain, and darkness,
and tell me its not just another day in a genocide.
But one day, one day, my suffering brothers and sisters
the flowers will grow between broken shards of glass,
and the light will shine at last,
yay, the light will shine
through those broken pieces of glass,
and the ground cries out their names to Hosanna in the Highest
as He gathers them home into His loving arms,
and its just another day in Paradise.
And milk will flow once more
and there will be children’s laughter on the streets
and they will smell their mother’s cooking again,
and love will flow like a river down paths paved with gold,
and those tears, those tears will grow abundance in the land,
there will be no more pain and sorrow,
no more staring into a soldier’s cold eyes
as he rapes his litter sister with a gun pointed to his head
and he wants to explode
WHY!?
And it’s just another day in a genocide.

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Verse as Commentary

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Sheryl Martin

Sheryl Martin

It is suffering that shoots streams of creativity out of my heart, and the brokenness of life that explodes my heart into its soul.

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