If one were to exist

A weeping oak tree

-if such weeping oak tree were to exist-

I would be. 

 

It is day eleven of quarantine:

so says my long to-do lists-

almost overwhelmed with tasks

that attempt to maintain normalcy in these times.

and yet I stay in place

right there, in the living room, on the yellow couch, in front of the glass table, before a white screen, next to the morning mint tea cup,

right there I celebrate the land

without touching it. 

                                                                                                [Today is Land Day] 

I celebrate the martyrs 

without knowing them. 

I commemorate their suffering 

without feeling it.

I recite a prayer

without believing in it.

I listen to their stories on the radio

drawing on the distant reality of a community 

dressed with dignity and hope 

that existed 44 years ago

not far away from here. 

I call my parents for their version of the story;

built out of stones, smoke and smuggled leaflets

calling for a general strike. 

I listen to their rebellious youth longing

without responding, thinking of 

my generation becoming dead;

rotten in a virtualized, live-streamed solitude. 

 

Where do birds fly after the last sky, Mahmoud Darwish asked us once

and we never managed to answer him in time –

the time of the almond blossoms-

to tell him that birds reveal the skies

with every wing flap

stroke and swoop;

that every intentional, coordinated movement of their own

builds the skies, 

extending the boundaries of the world being formed. 

 

So today, on the 30th of March, 

Let’s not forget to hover, knock, flap, chirp, extend, and shatter space.