Lebanese poet, Ghassan Matar, wrote this poem (The Olives Have Not Departed) yesterday on the massacre of Qana (my translation):
"The Monster is hiding
And Qana, the dark-skinned girl
is sleeping by her grandmother
dreaming of pretty butterflies
and toys
and flying in a field of olives
she sits under a water wheel
to lift up her hair,
and she sees lighted grapes
like tablets of gold,
and she sees her father
embedded in the rock
embracing his rifle,
and in his eyes are
flags of dignity and rage,
she gets scared, and wakes up,
she seeks protection in her
grandmother's arm,
she tries to sleep,
and before she falls asleep
the planes raid,
and the flesh sink in a sea
of flames and fire
only her shoe remains,
she kissed it,
and dipped it in her blood,
and I threw it in the face of Arab rulers.
They cut the bridges to you,
did words arrive
or did they prevent words
from crossing
I did not use to cry,
but I bowed down before your wounds
to pick up what splattered from incense
and you whispered to me:
"bullets did not make me bleed
they cross from my veins to my homeland,
what made me bleed are betrayal and debauchery"
I don't own what can bandage,
o you who are spotted on the forehead,
I own the flames of love,
will that suffice
will it make you forget your wound?
Or shall I also add the love of refugees
who refuse the humiliation of those
who loved the graves?
Extend your hand to mine
Between us are roads, valleys, and rivers
and a land of wounds and light
extend your hand
and look how the processions are
crossing toward your glory,
the wounds are the bridges,
olives have not gone,
They extended their shade over the South
and slept standing
and said to those who asked:
"This sand is my father,
I was born at his hands
and lived in it
and my father stays here
and he has not departed
and has not abandoned his kids
And I am here staying
Maybe tomorrow a child
who survived the wound of Qana
will come.
Who but me will direct him
if he asks about his father"