Poem: The Oath

The Oath

The little hand he holds
Is all they could find to give him:
Wrapped in blue plastic,
A hand once brown, now bloodied and black,

The hand of one too young for school,
The hand of his daughter,
Riven in the charred rubble
That had been her room,

The hand he held so often
To guide the child in safety
Through Gaza’s streets in blistering heat
For the cooling waters of the Med,

A hand he cannot hold much longer,
Nor can he stay with his wife and weep.
His oath won’t release him
To surrender to his grief.

He must return to his hospital.
He must attend to children who live,
No matter where the next bomb falls,
No matter if it falls on him.

Feature Image: Victim of Israeli airstrike in Jabalia (wikicommons)