Bones of Silence: A Starved Cry from Palestine

His ribs are not ribs—

they are prayers unspoken,

etched into skin by hands that never fed him,

by days that stretched longer than war.

He does not sleep;

he collapses

into the embrace of metal beds

cold as the world that let him waste.

O Palestine,

your sons don’t die with bullets alone.

They die slowly—

with each spoon denied,

each border sealed,

each truck turned back

while the world scrolls past

their hollow cheeks.

He once laughed, you know.

A small giggle,

chasing the sound of birds.

But then came drones,

and silence fell like dust

in his mouth.

Now his voice has no echo.

Only bones speak—

and they do not lie.

They cry out from stretchers,

from sheets soaked in grief,

from mothers who can no longer sing lullabies

because their throats are dry

with prayer and ash.

Is this what justice tastes like?

Is it bitter and pale,

like rice imagined

in a child’s fevered dream?

We measure grief in grams now—

each one lost to politics,

to cowardice,

to silence.

To the price of “peace”

that costs children their breath.

He did not ask for flags.

He asked for bread.

And still,

he was denied.

Let the world not scroll past.

Let the ink bleed truth.

Let this poem be his voice—

because his never had a chance.