Gaza, the Line They Draw in Sand
They carved a map from flesh and stone, lines jagged as shattered glass, shores bruised with the weight of warships. The sea speaks here, a tongue of sorrow, its waves erasing dreams etched by hands calloused from exile.
In Gaza, the olive trees are storytellers, roots tangled with histories unsaid, branches reaching for a sun blocked by steel and ordinance. This is no land of silenceā it sings with the pulse of resistance, its breath heavy with the scent of orange blossoms and the char of smoldering homes.
Here, walls are built not to hold, but to severā the river from its course, the child from his kite, the farmer from his fields.
But Gaza does not kneel. Its streets chant names of the fallen, its skies burn with unsurrendered dreams. Every brick, a testament. Every scar, a signature. This city speaks the language of survival to a world that feigns deafness.
They call this siege. We call it a refusal to forget. Here, stones become weapons, hands become prayers, and each dawn rises with an unbroken oath: Gaza will not die.
They bomb, and Gaza rebuilds. They steal, and Gaza reclaims. They burn, and Gaza rises, a phoenix clothed in ash and light.
This is not martyrdom. This is life grasped from the jaws of annihilation. This is the story they cannot erase, written in the blood of those who refuse to vanish from the map.
Gaza, the beating heart of a peopleā a land where hope and defiance grow stronger than the walls that try to contain it.
~ Submitted Prompt
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