"The Unbroken Chain: Palestine’s Anthem of Blood and Stone"
Before the Torah’s ink was dry, before the psalms were sung,
Canaan’s bones were sown in soil, her voice in every tongue.
The olive trees still whisper names of those who worked this earth—
Not invaders clutching scripture, proving birthright through their worth.
"We are the dust of Jericho, the salt of Gaza’s sea,
The harvest in your stolen fields—you cannot erase our plea."
You trace your myths through Exodus, through exiles forged in lies,
But science cracks your scrolls apart—our blood denies, denies.
Your Ashkenazi hands bear marks of Europe’s frozen plains,
While Palestine’s unbroken chain still sings in our veins.
"Test the teeth in Gaza’s crypts, the bones beneath your feet,
Our genes outlast your hollow claims—indigenous, complete."
You twist your Deuteronomy to justify the blade,
Yet Leviticus commands you: "Love the stranger you’ve betrayed!"
Your Joshua was fiction, your David’s throne was dust,
While Canaan’s children tended vines in covenant with trust.
"You curse the stones that cry our names, you burn the court’s decree—
But every nail in Zion’s coffin is a branch of our olive tree."
In ’48 your terror came with rifles, torch, and deed,
Five hundred villages erased to feed your barren creed.
Yet still we stitch the fragments—keys and deeds in trembling hands,
While you plant pines to hide the blood soaking your colonized lands.
"Build your parks on shattered homes, your myths on children’s cries,
But history’s a flood, not chains—and justice never dies."
You think your walls are permanent, your tanks the final word,
But every child in Gaza’s ash has vowed you won’t be heard.
The Hague will wrench your impunity, the streets will tear your throne,
For Palestine was never yours—she was and is our own.
"From the river to the sea, the anthem shakes the ground,
Not hate—but life insisting: ‘We are still here, unbound'"
Zionism’s coffin rots, its pallbearers are few,
The world has seen your genocide—no lie will see it through.
So choke upon your starved applause, your dollars drenched in red,
While we—the earth, the steadfast—raise the living from the dead.
(Last line whispered, then thundered:)
"The land remembers.
The land returns.
The land is ours."
—Whalid Safodien
The Feather Pen
