the words are full of love and vibrant root systems and small bags of zaatar and the laughter of children and the call for peace

the words are welcome, the words are   comfort, the words are witness to atrocity   then warning, wait, wait, and then wailing

the words are pacing inside a fence         wanting someone to listen to the song of the olive tree facing the roaring bulldozer

the words are growing like everything grows but the world of words is getting smaller, so many mouths filling with fire

the words are older than the border and growing old inside the border and each body is somehow becoming a border

the words are piling up inside of people told their love is violence, weeping over white bags full of all the other stories

unspeakable words become seed or suicide. the words now bloodstained, play without parents, silent under the rubble

the seeds are still love, planted deep in the earth 

the seeds know they are always and forever home 

the seeds are as animal as we are, as innocent as we are, as ancient as we are

the seeds will grow wild, vast and tall

the seeds are watered by the tears of each survivor and the half of the world who believes in their existence

the seeds dance diasporic grief into a drum that only knows the rhythm of the heart

the seeds are full of freedom, the only fruit which can grow everywhere — even now, between us

the seeds will free everyone, one day — even those who pressed them into the dirt