By Meshach Brencher

A canvas fit to stroke the infinite space
with the colours of madness
generations destroyed by
widespread discrimination
someone else’s fingertips
building clutches around dispossessed communities
minds expelled from frequent incursions
these subjects too sensitive
to be talking about
local citizens are monochrome paint palettes
walking up and down blind streets
futile colour schemes saturated
a habitat breeded by propaganda
these divided neighbourhoods
streetlamps tamed by watchtowers
hell-bent on capturing the oppressed
from expressing their reality
all media reports locked within a microscope
the TV operator finds it an ambiguous question
to call up about a network always breaking down
near the coastline of The West Bank Wall
so indulge on this famine
this diaspora
a bare bone windchime
tie toeing melodies on battlefields
impending harassment at checkpoints
is the tinkling sound in the draught
it wears a crown of shackles
this throne sabotages its subjects
with kleptocratic injustices
wounded doors linger
forced open by yielding arms lustful
that wear blood and pillows palpitate
kisses that only resuscitate
spirits to be held in submission
villages spending weeks burning ashes
leaving relatives to cradle photos not fingertips
a child born to play in a deserted warzone
buckled buildings are their apparatus
yet beneath this rubble
olive branches lift their unyielded arms
to pave a pleading requiem
an image that doesn’t yet exist on this canvas
only a silhouette, obsolete
an abscess, contagious pathogen
a wish to breath green and carefree
revive a broken kingdom
every last drop of this pigment to stroke the heat away
this spirit resides on this land
allow it to be golden at the mercy of the enforcers