Undressing a word

If a word were more than a word,
a tone, a sound, a frowning,
a pasture, a nest, a genocide— a word
so wrong it hurts,
undressing  horror,
naming horror, proclaiming horror,
embodying horror,
the smell of burning defiance,
walking without belonging,
going away without a place,
tents for the sleepless,
for the wounded, for the childless,
a word as a reference
for a history without a future,
names recorded in files
as figures,  residue,
nations disappearing,
leaving stories and songs— where
do we trace them?
Shall I trace them to the Jordan River?
to the Mediterranean Sea?
to the open ocean or
the Arabian dunes?
How do we trace Palestinian lives
if they are buried in a cacophony of lutes,
drums without a word?
If this word were so repugnant
but well-known to the perpetrators
that would make them clench their fists,
choke, savour the taste,
perform their deeds and
absolve the horror with sacred waters— would
this word still be genocide?