Fifty Colors for a Single War
1
War is not a bomb,
But rather a splinter that rests in the chest of a mother
Who is waiting for a sound,
And nobody ,
Comes back.
2
War...
Is esoteric tombs,
That awake on wailing,
And sleep
In the lap of a fatherless missile.
3
War
Is a girl who wears eyeliner
In an asylum,
A young girl who colourates with chalk
A school bag,
A photo of a wedding
Bleeding under the ruins,
A pain which exudes
In a bailer of dirty water.
4
War
Is a narrow iron room,
That is not suitable for sleep.
Sanctity
Is the remains of a paint on a wall.
Prophecies
Are empty plates of food,
And a sole cup of coffee
With no smell.
5
In war,
Death passes before us
Once,
And several times.
It wears the realistic jacket of falsity,
It looks at us,
And never looks back.
6
In war,
I didn’t choose death,
Rather it was put in my hand as a disgrace.
I was not a patriotic,
Nor a traitor,
I was a mere suitcase of expatriation.
And in newscasts,
I come to be known as numbers.
7
War
Adjusts its hair, Laughs sometimes,
And sleeps between us.
And whenever we wanted to write about it,
The pen bled
A salty ink
*خَمْسُونَ لَوْنًا لِحَرْبٍ وَاحِدَةٍ*
1
الحَرْبُ لَيْسَتْ قُنْبُلَةً،
بَلْ شَظِيَّةٌ تَسْتَقِرُّ فِي صَدْرِ أُمٍّ
تَنْتَظِرُ صَوْتًا.
وَلَا أَحَدَ.
يَعُودَ.
2
الحَرْبُ....
أَضْرِحَةٌ مُسْتَتِرَةٌ،
تَصْحُو عَلَى نَحِيبٍ،
وَتَنَامُ
فِي حِضْنِ قَذِيفَةٍ مَجْهُولَةِ الأَبِ.
3
الحَرْبُ
فَتَاةٌ تَضَعُ الكُحْلَ
فِي مَلْجَأٍ،
طِفْلَةٌ تُلَوِّنُ بِالطَّبْشُورِ
حَقيبة مدرسية،
صُورَةُ زِفَافٍ
تَنْزِفُ تَحْتَ الأَنْقَاضِ،
وَجَعٌ يَرْشَحُ
فِي سَطْلِ مَاءِ قَذِرٍ.
4
الحَرْبُ
غُرْفَةٌ حَدِيدِيَّةٌ ضَيِّقَةٌ،
لَا تَصْلُحُ لِلنَوم.
القَدَاسَةُ—
بَقَايَا طِلَاءٍ عَلَى جِدَارٍ.
النُّبُوءَاتُ—
أَطْبَاقُ طَعَامٍ خَاوِيَةٌ،
وَفِنْجَانُ قَهْوَةٍ وَحِيدٌ
بِلَا رَائِحَةٍ.
5
فِي الحَرْبِ،
يَمُرُّ المَوْتُ مِنْ أَمَامِنَا...
مَرَّةً،
وَمَرَّاتٍ كَثِيرَةً.
يَرْتَدِي سُتْرَةَ الزَّيْفِ الوَاقِيَةَ،
يَنْظُرُ إِلَيْنَا،
وَلَا يَلْتَفِتُ.
6
فِي الحَرْبِ،
أَنَا لَمْ أَخْتَرِ المَوْتَ،
وَإِنَّمَا وُضِعَ فِي يَدِي كَوَصْمَةٍ.
لَمْ أَكُنْ وَطَنِيًّا،
وَلَا خَائِنًا،
كُنْتُ مُجَرَّدَ حَقِيبَةِ نُزُوحٍ.
وَفِي نَشَرَاتِ الأَخْبَارِ،
أُعْرَفُ بِالأَرْقَامِ.
7
الحَرْبُ
تُهَنۢدِمُ شَعْرَهَا،
تَضْحَكُ أَحْيَانًا،
وَتَنَامُ بَيْنَنَا .
وَكُلَّمَا أَرَدْنَا أَنْ نَكْتُبَ عَنْهَا،
نَزَفَ القَلَمُ
حِبْرًا مَالِحًا
Artwork by the author's daughter, Dania Shwiel
Abeer Mohamed is Palestinian novelist, poet, and community activist, working in the fields of childhood and human rights. Her work focuses on resistant literature, feminist narratives, and memory writing under war. She is committed to documenting the experiences of women and communities under siege, while exploring the intersections of erasure and survival in literature.
