When I slept the other day
Gasa was a shattered human puzzle,
crisscrossed with scars, and
debris lay disconnected like amputated limb
The streets were wounded veins, and
Structures were human skeletons
The city's heart pulsated irregularly, and
voice breathed like a wheezing patient
The landscape resembled a major wound with its peeled skin, and
Perishing children akin to heavy loss of human hair
When I woke up today
Gaza was an artist's bloody canvas,
a battlefield bereft of colours, and
broad brushstrokes merging with blue(s)
The Alleys resembles Paul Nash's The Menin Road, destroyed utterly and filled with shell holes.
The space is similar to Asger Jorn's stalingrad where bodies were buried in mass graves.
The bodies reminds me of the scattered body parts in Otto Dix's The war, as the hands in Gaza has their name on just to be identified after death
Cries of the Palestinian man near the debris SEEM linked to the muffled voice of the white-shirted, wide-eyed “martyr figure,” in Francisco de Goya's The third of May 1808
The sky is akin to Van Gogh's starry night, swirling and bluish, bearing many traumas and myriad of pain
The mothers in Gaza mirrors the bellowing bull in Picasso's Guernica or that terrified mother in Léon Cogniet's Massacre of Innocents
If I wake up tomorrow,
Gaza may echo a Discordant Lullaby,
akin to the ever-changing Torah.
Letters stand bare, devoid of vowels, punctuation absent, struggling to find meanings,
The white spaces amidst letters bear room to wander,
as they say ceasefire is temporary
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