نشيد شجرة الزيتون

In terracotta soil my roots 

plunge deep. Their proximity 

to the earth is a testament to 

my heritage, my claim to فلسطين.

My

    aged

          limbs 

     coil

and

      curl

              towards 

     heaven. 

The 

     sunbirds

                   and 

           stars

             above 

     have

            watched 

         me

wither. 

     They

           know

         I

 belong 

           to 

      the 

land. 

Sun bares its teeth heat bites at 

my trunk and my limbs yet here 

I remain. My climate resistance is 

a testament to my Falastini heritage.  

My life passes not in years but

in harvests. I look on as generations

gift the next with the keys to their 

identity, the fruit of their survival. 

The olives adorning my crown are

offerings to the fellahin, those who

toil long and tireless in the fields 

of Jenin to extract oil from the zaytoon. 

The golden nectar of the zeit fills my 

olives and it courses through Falastini

veins. Cultivating the zaytoon is a 

testament to their Falastini heritage. 

My existence frightens. My existence

challenges theirs. They blaze my 

brothers and sisters—they sever my

limbs—they rob me of my olives— 

What they don’t know lies under the earth

My roots remain attached to the land.

A testament to my Falastini heritage.

A testament to my resistance.