Vines of Hope, Roots of Resistance

Grape juice spills on the page,

its ruby stains a timeless rage,

each droplet speaks of lives confined,

of dreams denied, of ties unbind.

In Gaza’s streets, the children play,

amid the rubble, come what may.

Their laughter weaves through skies of gray,

a melody that won't decay.

Oh Palestine, your roots run deep,

through olive groves, where ancestors weep.

Their whispers rise with each new dawn,

a plea for peace, for hate withdrawn.

Walls may divide, but hearts unite,

in the darkest hour, a flickering light.

Hands reach out across the sea,

grasping threads of humanity.

The page is soaked in crimson hues,

a tapestry of battered truths.

Yet hope, like vines, begins to climb,

defying war, defying time.

The juice may stain, but will not erase,

the courage etched on every face.

For unity’s a boundless stream,

a shared and unrelenting dream.

So let the page drink this wine,

a symbol of the sacred sign:

That peace can rise, a steady wave,

and love can heal, and lives can save.