Baby Martyr – A Poem By Angel Falasteen

by Angel Falasteen on Monday, November 1, 2010

I”m six and seven

And up to eleven,

Then I’m an adult

In an Israeli court

My hands tied in the back of my back

He comes to me with a punch and a sack.

He covers my head with a hood of Zionist stench

Though my belly is tough, it will not flinch.

The noise is loud and pierces my brain.

My pathetic shirt hangs proud with a fresh blood stain.

My poor mother is worried sick, I’m sure.

She burried my brother before me. She will endure.

And my dad too, depression got him in the end

With no home, no land, no olive trees to tend.

I’m in here for days on end

Or is it months or even years, I no longer comprehend.

The noise is too loud

And I can feel the shroud.

He beats me again today

Then its another’s turn to play.

I’m broken now, but I’ll not confess.

I’ll leave my body, let those murdering bastards clean up the mess.

A few more thoughts before I go

I am human. This you must know.

You’d never know it `cause I’m tough as a rocks I throw.

I had hoped to grow a mustache so fine.

Maybe marry Muna. I’d be hers and she’d be mine

Maybe be a father….our children free in Palestine.

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