I. To the Dead
37 Days.
For 37 Days, we waited for you to come home.
37 days.
111 meals. 111 meals you missed with your family. 111 times you didn’t get to see them at the table.
5 Shabbats. 5 Shabbats you didn’t get to see the sunset, you didn’t get to welcome the Sabbath bride.
5 Shabbats. 5 Shabbats we set the table for you, praying that you’d be there next week.
37 days. That’s 5 weeks, and 2 days. 888 hours, give or take.
888 hours in a Gazan prison.
37 Days.
For 37 Days, we waited for you to come home. But on the 38th, we had to wait no longer.
37 Days in a Gazan prison, but not anymore.
As it turns out, you had died 37 days before.
But the damage was so deep, that nobody knew,
Your body was mangled, it was not even you.
37 Days.
For 37 Days, we set the table for you at home,
And we set it still, because you were never alone.
For 37 Days,
I’ve battled with my friends,
They told me they were righteous,
And I would see that in the end.
For 37 Days,
They marched like holy-rollers,
Alongside all those people,
Tearing down my dear friend’s poster.
II. To The Living
For 37 Days,
We were sick in bed with grief,
And in that same expanse of time,
You’ve been smiling with your teeth.
I saw you in the streets,
You were smiling wide and true,
And later that same night,
You partied until two.
You’ve taken up this fight,
Because you think its cool,
But you won’t have to see the blight,
Of your friend’s face blown to gruel.
You don’t have to wonder,
If she is really dead,
You don’t have to bother,
About the words you never said.
You don’t know the pain,
Of losing something that you love,
Praying for 37 days,
And learning that’s not enough.
For you what are the stakes?
Nothing, I am sure.
Your virtues are all fake,
Your heart is so impure.
It’s been 37 days,
And you could have just said something,
About how kidnapping is wrong,
Or you could have just said nothing.
Instead you chose to chant,
And burn things in the streets,
You made academic rants,
While we wrapped her in a sheet.
Three times a day we’ll mourn,
Eleven months we’ll cry,
A pain that must be borne,
By a heart that’s cracked inside.
37 days from now,
We will still be grieving.
Will you be pulling posters down,
You, who lack all feeling?
