The last Piano in the Gaza Strip

The piano survived.
The oud, the violin,
the trumpet, the qanun,
the flute—they staggered
and died with a glance
of eternity,
like a blooming orchard,
its petals bearing nothing but sorrow.
The ashes were black,
anonymous, like a garment reduced to dust.
The strings melted and shrank with pain.
I am glad you still stand,
unscathed, confined in your notes.
Memory is a rich tool.
The Israeli soldiers smashed your keys,
as a bullet surrenders the living—
the prisoner, the neighbour—
but your wounds are curable.
Our music will always be in the air
they breathe.
They cut your cords vertically
to make sure you bled to death,
but death is not the end.
Habibi, I will knot them
softening your scratches with
olive oil—
the thunk, clunk, clang
are uncovering the haunted sky,
the weakening night,
the arsenal of love.
We’ll gather again tomorrow,
the music will bathe our shore,
our feet, our crops
as we hear the music of the last piano
in the Gaza Strip.