Sailing stones

No trees, no people, no stones
no water lives underground,
no water dowsing
could uncover the wish,
the gulp, the thirst, the
pounding, the rising ,
browsing amongst the stones ,
the elderly dreams to walk and
tender the young,
no young, no old, no fruit
the wheat shrivelled under fire,
exquisite fire threaded by hand,
tapestry of pain, delicate elements
of chemistry to engulf,
propel to the utter atmosphere
nothing less than hate,
hate, towards the killed
the dispossessed, their music
language, clothes,
pot and pans.
The hands will be left untouched
as they will always carry stones
to build the homes, and fight
with empty hands, with strong tendons,
wide to hold, marked by work,
lines like rivers, perennial branches
waiving, scorched by the sun
long fingers to embrace and
defend, to repel the invader,
the arsonist.

No trees, no people, no stones
trees with uncounted olives
green and bloated with anger ,
are storytellers, mothers
shading to embrace the heat,
colours serenading despairing roofs,
simulating children games,
lanterns of paraffins
reinventing the human body
less fragile and more evasive,
my shadow is my companion at
the table, at the market place
in this empty space that once
was a city, a village, a refugee camp.

Rolling stones,
unmovable stones,
sailing stones