Song Of Palestine Poem by Seddik Jelouane

Forgive me Whitman,
For I cannot celebrate myself
And sing myself,
June doesn't wear his rainbow dress-
This very tragic year,
Nor does he belong anywhere.
The sky throws shades of silver gray,
The sun hides back in the closet,
The grass is less greener,
And I'm too sad to invite myself outside.
You see, though love is a crime on my land,
I still sit between the comfort of its arms,
I still hug the peace of its nights,
I still kiss the lips of its moons,
And write of who I am with pride.
But in Palestine, love is the land-
Love dances on the sound of bombs,
Love is cleansed like an ethnicity,
Love sleeps on cold-empty beds,
Love dies at a very young age,
And love saves its kisses for heaven.
So, forgive me Whitman,
Because this song is not for myself.