War, Palestine, wall, unfaithful, RELIGIONS.
I take the ball of rags, trying not to stumble on the limbs rained down from the sky during the last attack. Nothing changes around me, nothing changes from the beginning of my life, when my eyes were opened before the horror. There is no life beyond this life, there is no hope for us, imprisoned behind that infamous wall that makes us prisoners in yet another camp in the open, named by others with different name.
Everything had to be forgotten. Everything had to be reminded of the horrors of the past millennium, but the dead burnt, charred corpses cinder are now with us and I held his hand . I feel it, touch it, and skeletal and bony like mine. His stomach is crying for hunger as mine. The sound is the same as equal to the atrocities he suffered, and now my eyes and prematurely adults they see around me.
me is whispering, but others can not hear him, listen to his prayers to JHVH, addressed to Adonai. I feel his hand touching mine, and with a gesture of inviting me to address my God, Allah, God himself absent yesterday and today, of our sacred texts.
Adonai Where was passed in those areas where it is now Allah? Perhaps hidden beyond that wall? Maybe it's hidden silent and listen to our common prayers?
Touch with his Kippa mind, touch my spirit with Keif. The same fabric worked by man, the same God, the same faith, the same pain, death itself . Death.
I wish I could see her smile, I wish you could see my smile in search of hope towards the future absent.
Get the ball in his hands, dirty ground and smeared with blood. I spotted my fingers, my fingers black and numb the mind to the shrill cries that I hear.
is approaching yet another evening, yet another night of hell, where the sky is brightly lit by tracer rockets, where more innocents will be killed for a holocaust without end.
Today, as then no one wants to hear the cries of the innocent . Today as in the past millennium in too many close their eyes , covers his ears before the genocide that is taking place, before the indiscriminate killing that takes place daily .
Today, as then the politicians speak, they speak the public proclamations, the huddled and crying faults to one another, but it is falling on our heads the missiles are on the heads of our brothers over the wall falling our missiles causing destruction and fear death.
We are worth less than the grains of sand on the beach , we are poor pawns in a chess crazy, checkers without kings and queens, as vile as live protected, venerated and revered, while our table is empty , stomach cries and eyes we have no more tears to cry parents, brothers, sisters and friends lost.
We are guilty! Yes guilty as our brothers gassed and cremated. Guilty of having a different God, to have a faith born from the same ancestors, but the degenerate descendants was shattered and divided, reading, writing, narrating and creating walls of hatred and lack of communication.
to whom to address my prayers? In Mecca? I can not kneel on the ground in the right direction, because around me I see nothing except desolation, death and walls that rise to heaven? The God of the Jews? Begging mercy to put an end to our suffering and have mercy of us suspected unfaithful to his presence? The God of the Christians, who according to their customs will be remembered His birth in a few days? The same God who calls us infidels, as we call them infidel crusaders?
No, not this year will turn any prayer to God no human . Will not make any sacrifice to any God Jewish Muslim or Christian. Today I will gather in silence holding hands around the world, taking in the heart of those who wish to raise a prayer for the dead man exterminated in all the millennia passed , reflecting on the horrors that I see before me today.
will not watch their religions, but their hearts , Knowing next to have that friend who smiled with his bony hand is the Kippa system, and the other to caress Keif, infusing them with a smile, the certainty of a future beyond that wall, where he had read in the past a thousand times: "Work makes you free".
posted by: Marco Bazzano poet, writer, journalist, painter.
A new friend of Pen Ink Blog: Marco Bazzano: find out who is . His blog on
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Published Blog Pen The Inkwell 22712706
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