I wrote this poem two months ago and it was published a few days ago by @zeteo_news as part of my long poem mourning my people. When I wrote it, I did not see the hand of Sha’ban Al-Dalu reaching out in midst of flames. So here is the updated poem: A hand is no longer a hand as long as it does not find another hand to shake, as long as it does not find food to share with others, as long as it does not find a pen to write, as long as it’s the only meat a dog can find to eat, as long as it reaches out in the midst of flames, and as long as it goes missing, forever.

Dear reader: If we don’t meet in person, then this book is a handshake. Place your hand, right or left, or even both, on its cover. Feel the warmth of souls in the pages. Place the book close to your ear. If the noise is more than your head can bear, take the book with you to a forest not one human ever walked. When you open the book, the poems shall scream, the words like shrapnel, bomb, and F-16 shall cut the branches and trunks of centuries-old trees. The roots shall bury their eyes and you shall witness the true scene of what this planet looks like, should you look truly, as long as these poems happen again and again and again.