Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Poetry by Sharaiz Chaudhry

By Sharaiz Chaudhry 
(London School of Economics Palestine Society)

Other Side of the Rainbow

On the other side of the rainbow there’s my homeland.
I have heard of its beauty but I’ve never seen it.
I see the rain but the green grass is hidden.
The olive branches, the fig trees
On the other side of the rainbow.
I get there and it disappears.
The pot of gold I have never seen,
The land I see in my dreams.
On the other side of the rainbow.
I was promised I could go there.
I heard of its beauty in the tales and poems.
Sand, MY sand.
Land, MY land.
The sun fades, the night arrives
But the rainbow remains.
On the other side of the rainbow there’s my homeland.

Washed In Blood

The hope of dreams is pointless in a land washed in blood.
The dream of happiness has died.
Only the dream of death remains.
An escape from the pain and sorrow.
For surely the Hereafter will be full of pleasure?
Or has God doomed us to this living hell?
The body washed in blood.
It asks: “Am I not worthy of water?”
Surely before burial he shall get his wish.
But what of his body which lies in five places on the street?
Where should the son start when he picks up his father’s body?
He asks his father: “Oh father, how can I bury you?
How can you go towards your Lord in such a state?”
He replies: “Pray for my eyes,
For surely they have seen too much.”
With that he is gone, pain only a memory.
And his memory only pain.
This is a song from a land washed in blood
A song from the wasteland.
A song of a friendship only with death.
Written with the hands which have prayed in hope for too long,
But when hope has left our bodies.
Only our words remain.

Palestinian Story

I was not born when they shot my mother.
Ripped me out her womb when I was too young to cry.
Too young to know what monsters they were.
They came through our town
Killing and raping as they go.
I’m happy that I died before Allah put me through this.
I was only three when they took my parents.
They bombed our house in 98.
I lay by their dead bodies for hours.
I called my father’s name but he didn’t reply.
His face was burnt,
But he escaped this hell
When I was seven they shot my sister.
They took her life while she ran across the road.
Caught in the crossfire
She lay on the path, motionless.
She left me alone,
To suffer the pains to come
They built this wall over us.
It blocks the sunlight whilst I walk.
But there never was light here,
Not since 1948 when they took my father’s land.
They kill us day and night
But the world remains silent to our suffering.
The bombs fall over us,
I only hear stories of days in Jerusalem.
I fight against their oppression
With a gun in my hand and a bomb on my chest.
Fighting with the Mujahideen.
Only seeking the pleasure of Allah till I reach him.
Blood drips from my neck.
The pain is nothing compared to what I’ve seen.
I see my sister, I see my father, I see my mother.
I see the shaheed, I see Musa, I see Muhammad.
They put out their arms to greet me.
I reach into Allah’s hands from where I came
I see Jerusalem and an army overflowing it.
The liberation from tyranny.
They enter al-Aqsa and the imam gives the call to prayer.
They line up, shoulder to shoulder
And praise the glory of Allah
And the day when Palestine is liberated.

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