White Feathers of Martyred Wings (a poem)

Dear friends,

What \"soil\" does a mother's heart have to be, for her child to play freely on the street?
What \"religion\" does a child's innocence have to be, for him to breath into adulthood?

Here I offer not a poem but the \"blood\" that oozed from my veins on the Muslim's Holy day of Fithr Eid 2014.
On this day, the civilians of Ghaza, were \"bestowed\" a day of \"peace\" by the Israeli's -- after an entire month of bombing and killing during Muslim holy Month of Ramazan -- so the Palestinians could \"Celebrate\".
Mourning mothers and orphaned children were left to \"celebrate\" nothing but thousands of Death.

Today I raise my voice and question humanity -- what \"race\" should a human be, to not feel the death of another being?

Light and prayers,
Ishtar Zikr

...

White Feathers of Martyred Wings by Silent Fingers (Ishtar Zikr)

Was it Eid Prayer or the hum of another drone?
Witnessing shivering bricks of ancient mosque minarets,
and counting starving days of a savage Ramazan;
I went looking for white feathers of martyred wings --
of little angels dipped in blood and left to dry on the ground,
of innocent lips calling out....
for any mother's sheltering bosom.

But, who would hear their cries now
amidst screaming rubbles of dust and stone;
scattered around pink bones and purple flesh
at every corner of a war savy road?
And I went on picking tiny fingers,
innocent eyelids,
and rosy cheeks --
fragments of our future stuck to the ends of iron bullets.
A lineage slaughtered and burnt
on the land of Holy Messiahs, where,
for Ibrahim, once was turned fire into a cold garden.
Where Al-Aqsa sits dormant,
like the cold prayers between my palms
and 'His' sky....
Where Davood still sleeps in his green mausoleum --
while pointed-blue-stars slash the curtains of freedom,
on the grand stage of equality,
as the world sits back and encore.

And I?
I shall forever walk these paths --
picking white feathers,
and stenciling the roads with my bleeding soles --
so the blind hearts may smell my footprints,
and wash my blood with their tears...
.... before I leap into humanity's slaughtered future.

Note: A humble offering for all the Mothers who have lost their children to the war in Ghaza, Palestine.