Letters to Palestine

Palestine

I hate your wounds that are also my wounds

the graves that multiply in our soil

the hunger that carves our ribs

the shadows that weigh on our children

Yet I hold on

before your beauty

You are exile that lives within me

the only home my soul will ever claim

You are chains around my wrists

yet also the air that teaches me

how to breathe

Your beauty isn’t carved in marble

but in endurance

in fire that refuses to die

in the ache that grows roots

inside the chest of time.

I write to you in pieces

for my words cannot hold

your vastness

Each letter is a shard of longing

each silence

a confession of love too heavy for language

I write

to offer love to you

and resist forgetting

to name you

and refuse erasure

To carry you is to bleed

and to bleed is to live

Here are my letters, Palestine—

written not in ink

but in breath, in dust

in hope that refuses to die.