Jerusalem of Zion by the Bard of Bat Yam , Poet Laureate of Zion

Push. 

Tug a war of a city. 
We want it all, they say
It is our land, pride, inheritance. 

Criminals, they accuse. 
Inhumane, they fabricate. 

Push,
Pull,
Push.

Who do I belong to, she wonders. 

Blood bathes her innocent angelic walls,
The freshness of it molds into the fire red sky. 
The enclosing walls sing a death march tune in mourning,
Deafening the passerby to any other sound other than their thudding heart, vanishing breath, and magically invisible skin.

At four-forty-seven AM she collects her tears and wears them as a mask of bravery. 

I don’t want to be brave no more, she says. 
Let me bawl. 
Let me be. 
Too much pain I hold. 
Too many murders I have born witness to.  
Allow me to raise my voice and scream,
Allow the blood curling in my veins to implode,
Allow my high pitched tones to reach the heavens. 
They will echo back towards me, and that’s ok. 
Allow me to be. 
Please.