The Bard’s Rewrite
A Land Torn Asunder
O mortal plight! Where once stood homes of mirth and memory, now doth ruin reign, and dust and ash make mockery of past joys. The folk of Gaza, tossed by fate’s unyielding hand, do stand in sorrow’s shadow, their choice as bitter as the tempest’s wrath. To bide within the wreckage of their fathers’ toil, or to wander forth, supplicants on a world’s indifferent stage—this is the heavy question that doth press upon their hearts.
Lo, the air is thick with lamentation, the streets bear witness to loss untold. The walls that cradled children’s laughter now crumble into naught, and the heavens themselves seem deaf to supplicants’ cries. Yet still, some stand firm, their feet rooted as the ancient oak, unwilling to part with the land that bore them. Others, by hunger or by fear compelled, seek passage beyond the gates of their affliction, though few hands extend to lead them forth.
The World’s Gaze, The People’s Trial
O fickle world, that dost debate the fate of men as though they were but pawns upon a board! The mighty sit in council, their voices raised in discourse, yet none do feel the sting of exile, nor taste the dust of ruin. They speak of borders, of policies and plans, yet what care have they for the mother who hath buried her child, or the youth whose future lies buried in rubble?
Some, in mercy’s name, would proffer shelter, yet others bar the gates, fearing what tide may come. And thus, the people stand, neither welcomed nor wholly forsaken, their destiny tossed upon the tempest of great men’s wills. Yet who shall speak for them, who shall hear their plea? If hope be but a fleeting specter, shall they chase it beyond the horizon, or stand and claim their place upon the earth that bore them?
To Stay or To Seek?
The question looms, as dark as night before the dawn. To stay is to suffer, yet to go is to wander without promise of peace. Does not the exile weep for the land of his birth? Doth not the rootless tree wither in time? And yet, what solace is there in a home that is no longer home, in shattered streets where love and laughter once did dwell?
O Gaza, thy children stand betwixt despair and dread, their voices unheard, their fates uncertain. If justice be a slumbering beast, who shall wake it? If mercy be a fleeting dream, who shall grasp it? The world doth watch, yet time doth press. Shall they stay, or shall they go? The answer, like the winds of fate, is ever shifting, ever cruel.
