Tell them

Are the children sleeping?
tucked in bed?
Leave the corridor light on,
Sometimes they need to see
they're not alone.
But the children aren't in their beds,
They don't sleep any more,
I hear them accusing and sobbing,
tears bathe their cheeks,
I keep wiping them clean,
but their eyes are broken fountains,
quenching thirst and flames.
Tell them we are coming
to stop the soldiers,
picking them up one by one,
and letting them be engulfed
by the dunes in the desert.
"They are troubled,
Their limbs ache,
and they cannot shake off the dust
that covers them like ancient relics."
Tell them we are coming
to rebuild Gaza, brick by brick,
their homes, their gardens will flourish again—
Orange, lemon, olive trees,
Thyme, grapevines, figs,
tender and red.
Tell them Israel quietly will devour itself
Like a voracious, crazed snake
without hunger.
Their blankets are wet,
The mud and a squalid sun
aren’t gentle,
but dimmed and loosed,
so many of them have fallen
in front of our feet like leaves
with heart and veins,
pounding so loud 
the moon is wrecked,
struggling to breathe,
the torch endures
such immeasurable pain
that it won't light.
I am so tired.
The children know everything;
They speak like men and women,
as if they had lived for so long
I can hardly listen to them
without clutching my head
between my hands,
staring at their feet.
Tell them there
we will dance and feast,
Food will be cooked with honey
and cinnamon,
Za’atar will season the air,
Our kitchen of flavours will be
like no other.
We know where the invader stands,
glorifying their defeat,
their helmet shall rust,
The weapons discompose
and the earth will ridge up slightly.
We will be at ease passing
their troops already bearing
no weight like ghosts.