Stopping By Rubbles on a Bombing Evening: A Palestinian Child’s Rereading of Robert Frost

Whose rubbles these are I think I know
The house doesn’t exist in these though
He will never see me stopping here
To watch his rubbles, reddish glow.

My cute mum must think it queer
To stop without any safe sky near
Between the rubbles and refugee camp
The darkest evening of the year?

She gives her bracelet bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound’s the sweep
of horrible shells and deadly flake.

The rubbles are ugly, dark and deep
But, mum, do I have promises to keep?
And steps to go before I sleep?
Only some steps……….before I sleep?

—The end—