Elegy for Hungry Gaza

 

Elegy for Hungry Gaza

“And all the children shall lie down in silence, and none shall wake them but the wind.”

I. The Cry Beneath the Ashes

Gaza, thy name is now a wound unhealed,
A page of fire no sea can cool or shield.
Thine olive groves are graves of ancient light,
Now trampled under drones and endless night.
Once bread was baked where songs were sung at noon—
Now ovens cold, and silence swells the tune.

Beneath the shroud of smoke and shatter'd stone,
Half a million souls cry out alone.
“Catastrophic hunger”—not a phrase,
But lips too dry to whisper praise or raise
A crumb to tongue. A mother rocks her ghost—
A child she fed with hope, now famine’s host.

II. The Ruins Remember

The streets remember feet that danced and played,
Now rubble fields where limbs and names are laid.
Since Oct. 7’s black and bloody dawn,
When vengeance came and reason was withdrawn—
25,000 gone in Gaza's womb,
The land now mother, manger, and the tomb.

In Israel too, the mourning candles burn,
For 1,200 never shall return.
Each side has wept, and war has made them kin
In grief, though not in justice, nor in sin.
Yet still the blades of war are drawn anew,
And mercy fades where rockets split the blue.

III. Hunger’s Dominion

No fig, no grain, no milk within the cup,
The soil starved, and time refuses to sup.
The date trees lean like mourners dressed in dust,
And water sings with poison, rot, and rust.
The aid ships wait, but gates are iron-shut,
And mouths bloom open like a wounded cut.

There is no feast in Gaza, only fast—
A curse that binds the future to the past.
Children trace loaves on walls with bits of coal,
Dream meals that death erases from the soul.
And hospitals become the final bed—
For hunger feasts where angels fear to tread.

IV. Of Hostages and Haunting

Still buried deep within the city’s cry,
The captive moan, unseen beneath the sky.
One hundred thirty-six in shadow kept,
While nations watched and diplomats just wept.
And some—already lost—yet still unnamed,
Their stories swallowed, futures gone unclaimed.

And soldiers too—five hundred souls and more—
Who marched on orders, now are lost to war.
On one day twenty-one were cast to flame,
A building fell, and none returned the same.
What price is drawn in blood and broken breath,
That makes a home of sorrow, war, and death?

V. A World That Watches

O West, who dines while children chew on sand,
Who counts the votes but not the bleeding hand,
Who funds the flames and sends the fuel with pride—
Where is thy conscience? Where does love abide?
You speak of law, of order, and of peace—
Yet justice dies, and mercy finds no lease.

Gaza is not a battlefield alone—
It is a cradle cracked, a dying tone.
Its minarets, its churches, shattered eyes,
Its prayers now echoes lost in drone-filled skies.
Yet still it sings, though no one dares to hear—
A song of hunger wrapped in mortal fear.

VI. The Elegy That Will Not End

O Gaza, weep, but do not weep alone,
The earth must shake beneath thy starving moan.
Let poets rise, and prophets cry thy name,
Until the world can no more turn from shame.
Let every stone become a voice, a plea—
"Let bread, not bombs, befall my family."

There is no glory in this endless grave,
No honour left for those who will not save.
Let ceasefire bloom where famine had its root,
Let children grow where once we buried fruit.
And may this elegy not be the last—
But the end of hunger’s brutal, burning past.

– In memory of all lives lost and all lives still waiting to live.
World Hunger Day — Gaza, 2025

                        -rs

 Short Story

 

The Feast of the Forgotten

Once, in a world not so different from our own, there existed two great kingdoms—Plentoria and Emberlin.

Plentoria was a land of overflowing orchards, golden granaries, and rivers of milk and honey. Its people tossed bread to the birds and left plates half-full, for food was so abundant, they believed it eternal.

Emberlin, on the other hand, was a kingdom of parched soil and empty bowls. Here, children named the wind “Mother,” for it was the only thing that touched them each night. People here ate dreams more often than bread.

Every year, on the 28^th day of the Month of Sorrows, a mysterious fog would rise between the two lands, forming a bridge of clouds called the Mouth of Earth. It was said that only one person from each kingdom could cross this path—chosen by fate, not birth.

This year, Liora, a twelve-year-old girl from Emberlin, was chosen. She had never tasted an apple, only seen them in the drawings her mother etched in the dust. That same morning, from Plentoria, came Jalen, the prince who thought hunger meant craving chocolate instead of caramel.

As they met on the bridge, the clouds beneath them whispered, “Share or perish.”

Liora and Jalen walked together into a third land—the Forgotten Field—a place shaped by human memory. Here, food appeared only when summoned through understanding.

At first, nothing grew. Jalen demanded fruits by name, but the soil yawned. Liora, kneeling, whispered stories of her people’s hunger—of her brother who once ate petals, of her grandmother who brewed soup from bark.

Moved by the pain woven into her voice, the earth trembled and sprouted a single loaf of bread.

Jalen stared, silent. For the first time, he felt hunger—not of the body, but of justice.

He broke the bread in two. They ate, and the field bloomed—trees bore fruits with names neither had ever heard, and vines dripped with compassion.

Returning to their lands, Liora carried seeds of memory, and Jalen, the recipe for humility. Together, they built the Council of Tables, where Plentoria shared not just food, but wisdom—and Emberlin offered resilience, tradition, and the sacred art of gratitude.

And every year since, on World Hunger Day, the sky bridge opens again—not between lands, but between hearts.

Moral: Hunger isn’t just about empty stomachs—it’s about unseen stories, unequal hands, and the courage to build a table where all can eat, and be heard.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

John F. Kennedy: The Flame and the Future

 

John F. Kennedy: The Flame and the Future

A voice rose clear in freedom’s name,
From Boston’s winds to nation’s flame,
He dreamed not small, but reached the skies,
With courage born of truth, not guise.
In Cold War chill, he stood with grace,
And etched his will in history’s face.
 
Ask not, he said, what you might gain,
But serve with heart through joy and pain.
He walked through time with steady stride,
With vision wide and hope as guide.
A sailor bold, a brother brave,
He lit the path he could not save.
 
For civil rights, he raised his hand,
And dared to dream a fairer land.
Though shadows closed on Dallas day,
His legacy would light the way.
A torch passed on, his dream still burns—
In every heart, his echo turns.

-        rs