W.A.L.L

One. Two. Three.

I’ve aqcuired the habit of counting trees since I was little;

As little as I didn’t know the Fatiha verse.

I enjoyed counting of houses when against the window pane

Counting the lines of crossing pavements

Counting huge slabs of concrete. A wall.

It is more than a wall.

It’s a demon. Haunts and follows us.

The yellow Ford transit skidded past it, but it kept following us.

With every move, a new slab would arise, as if evoking Hades to be.

On its top, the metal fence is grey

Greyer than the skies above,

Curled and tangled, it captured birds, air, and dreams

Dreams of reunion, freedom.

It captured a foot-ball of a young child

Aged six in Shuaafat

And another’s in Beit Hanina.

I counted the balls and counted the sorrows

Counted the attempts to retrieve ad reprieve the death sentence

Counted the failures

And with every concrete piece looming on the horizon

A feeling of estrangement gained traction

Making a transaction with the devil:

Trade my naïve hope with frustration.

The devil was happy

Taking my bundles of hope and rendering them to another plan of building walls.

To separate

Suffocate

And dominate.

Twenty four is the last count,

And so are my years in life

Will this end before we reach sixty?