We're alive, we're still alive,

but they wanted to die a natural death,

like the ones who die

just closing their eyes as if falling asleep.

Waiting for death is never a fancy,

but they have nowhere to go

to escape their deaths as refugees

in their own homes.

Like doves cooping their squabs

under their wings,

mothers warm the kids under their arms.

But missiles, like democracy,

treat everyone equally,

including mothers and children.

Their bodies are disfigured,

their hands and legs are severed,

their heads are smashed,

their fingers and flesh are scattered.

In the land of deaths, blood mingles

with rainwater flowing to the Jordan,

meandering toward the Dead Sea.

Here the dead and the living

make a little difference.

Alive or dead, humans deserve respect,

but no one is spared disgrace.

How do you look at

children's dead bodies if you're alive?

I wish the dead could return

and speak of their rights.

I wonder if the dead talk to the dead.

Sometimes you imagine graves

and gravely witness how

warmongers dance on dead bodies.

Now all are quiet in the West Bank.

Mohammad Shafiqul Islam, a poet, translator, and academic, is Professor in the Department of English, Shahjalal University of Science and Technology, Sylhet. Email: msislam-eng@sust.edu.