You didn't forget. You said "conflict" with your mouth full, you changed the channel when the child's body was pixelated— too close to your tea break.

Jargon protected you, boundaries protected you, you wrapped yourself in "I don't understand" like a neutral shawl.

But alas... boomerang poems don't forget. They rise silently, with the names of the victims engraved on their wings, and return.

When you sleep soundly, a verse will be placed under your eyelid— not to hurt your sleep, but to remind you that you weren't looking.

Not a punishment, but an invitation to wake up!

Forgotten meat? are the Children no longer cry, they have been taught to dry quickly— like a strip of meat in the sun, kept on diplomatic shelves.

Under the taps of Western silence, blood is just a foreign liquid, pasteurized in conventions and consumed in festive silences.

They tasted, and they never forgot.

Their Sabbath is made of the strings of voices torn from Palestinian throats. An inverted eucharistic feast, where the body is not broken, it is distributed—with drones, with veto, with applause.

Revenge does not require blood, but the curse—the curse is sincere, and it walks barefoot, with the names of children written on the soles of its feet

***