To Be Continued.

The land of peace The land of joy The land of worship The holy land

The tale of a land occupied. As men die and women cry, Their occupying continues as they defy.

With children buried under the ground, they continue to occupy the sacred mound.

As bullets fly, and bombs bomb, no one can appreciate this beautiful land.

A land with apricots and kind neighbors, the rising sun glistening across the horizon.

From mornings with loved ones to ones nearby, everyone lived peacefully without a single cry.

Plush oranges filled with honey sweetness and spring ripeness, even the trees moaned in delight.

Al Aqsa filled with prayer and surrounded by chirping birds, a sight that yearned and filled the soul.

Khutbas with profound meanings, and Salah with deep respect to their lord.

All was good for they were thankful to their lord

With the spotless blue sky, clear at noon, they would all exit with smiles on their faces. Women would give sweets and men talked to their friends while children ate, giggled, and ran.

People in the summer swimming under the blissful sun, jumping in the water that glistened fun. Sand from colors beige to pale, every grain dispersed in a tale. Young adults diving for the ball, while elders brought their stories to life. Life was delightful, and interesting at its best. Now all that remains are the dead families buried, and the missing families dispersed. The trees nearby, whispering the tale, a tale so beautiful it never came to fail. Some trees were ash and others were broken, just by looking at them, you could seem them in vain. Buildings bombed and structures ruined, food so scarce people died from malnutrition. Loved ones dead, missing, and starved, Palestine was no longer the tale it used to be. They kept on occupying, not caring they were destroying the holy land. With soldiers stationed, shooting anyone in sight, it was a sight that took a lot of might. Blood on the walls and on almost every home, you could see the type of genocide that foamed. With no mercy and not a single drop of shame, they still fight for what they call their " promised land ". Hospitals bombed, and barely any warnings, how could anyone survive those mornings? If not bombed, then shot, beat, or kidnapped; the sort of trauma that was impossible to heal from. As you step on the ground you can feel its emptiness, always being shot, bombed, and destroyed. It cracked under your feet, making you feel the emptiness that left it barren. The sun covered with debris, fog, and smoke, covering the sun that used to shine. The fruits were ruined, and none could grow, for when they had bombed the land they ruined the terrain. The sweetness of the fruit, lost to those alive, happiness was hard when death was nearby. The Palestinians who fought for their sacred land, may god be with them as they end. Countries supporting the genocide, when no one would want to experience that homicide. They still reigned and terrored, knowing their kind was getting hurt,

Children scared and mothers in prayer, fathers did their best to secure little safety. Some escaped while most did not, all because of _'s fault. People protesting and urging to help Palestine, while most sat in their chairs and didn't send a dime. The occupiers defy with bold arrogance, the sort of mindset that would end you up dead. With rolling tanks and loaded machine guns, they shot and hurt the people of Palestine. With rolling bodies and broken families, they occupy and boast with pride and ignorance. Those in captive and those in war, they push to fight knowing the end might be near. A type of resilience that should set an example, Oh, people of Palestine, fight with all you're might. Now the rain pours and washes away the dark blood, carving the soil as it sinks down. In a barren field a red cyclamen remains, perhaps it won't forget the tale. The blood may be washed, but the plant still remains, alone in a field with dead bodies in sight. This tale must never come to an end, but as all poems, this ones coming to an end.

With the trees whispering and the ground croaking, the wind warning and the sky crying.

We fight for the sacred land, the land that is no doubt for the Palestinians. Never forget the tale of Palestine. Shall someday it will come back alive. The land of peace The land of joy The land of worship The holy land