Among the Dead

a poem inspired by a Reuters article published on February 7, 2024.

Drawing of photography by Mohammed Salem, Reuters article.

Listen to the author reading Among the Dead

Among the Dead

Among the dead, the living feel safe.
Not in buildings that bombs will strike
at any moment and collapse over their heads,
crushing and trapping entire families
under dust and rubble,
but in plastic tents pitched near rows
of weathered graves in a cemetery
overlooking Rafah and the Mediterranean.

Every day more bodies are brought
to be buried under mounds of sand
and marked with crude cement blocks, 
one at the head and one at the feet.
And every day the displaced, the desperate,
the frightened and the weary come
to seek shelter and comfort
among the dead.

Hunger does not gnaw on the dead,
thirst does not suck their bones dry,
pain does not grind down their spirits,
loss and grief do not break hearts
that beat no longer.
The dead do not bleed and ache,
The dead do not weep and grieve,
The dead do not fear what trials,
what terror, what torture await them
today, 
tonight,
tomorrow.

Among the dead, the living carry on.
Children play in the sand or pick tiny flowers 
from stubborn plants that crawl between, 
around and over flaking gravestones.
Women hang limp clothes to air in the sun 
or scrape together what could be the last meal.
Men tend to fresh graves or scour the sky
for signs of death's imminent assault.
A family of four huddles together in the sand,
helplessly, hopefully, awaiting the day
when they, like the blessed dead, 
will find peace and be free.

A link to the Reuters article:
Living among the dead