بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم

The earth, from which our bodies are made
To which our bodies return
Trembles
From whistling missile fire

The heart, from which our bodies are sustained
Which our bodies sustain
Trembles
For our sisters in a cloud of tear gas, assaulted

The throat, with which our people weep their agony
Which is scathed and raw from drinking water too polluted to be legally classified as water, from not drinking at all
Trembles
From the hot gasp of a bullet through it

The eyes, which our hearts are leaked through
Which leak tears that are insufficient in an absolute sense
Tremble
From the hurt, the hurt, the hurt

Grief, I think, is a tremor

It is the hand-tremor when he lays down his pen and swallows tears, nothing left to say, just sorrow

It is the eyelid-tremor when she speaks quick and quiet, knowing her words fail to bear the weight under her tongue

It is the shoulder-tremor of an embrace that articulates what conversation and gentle, reddened eyes cannot quite convey

It is the body-tremor, too, of palms gripping fallen knees, when the whole being, the whole crowd, the whole earth becomes a single Weep

And it is the tremor of two lonely hands raised in prayer, knowing that only God can comprehend the depth

Of grief