There is no God in the name of Gaza.

By: Abraham Borg

Woe to the pilot whose eye is red with blood, to the journalist who silences, to the politician who signs death sentences. All are complicit in the desecration of the human image.

If there was a God in my name, Gaza

And his ears were not deaf to the sound of life's shattering.

The cries that are heard on the altar of Israel.

Even if his prophets were true

And not false prophets, false visionaries

This was His word to you:

O olive pickers, pray three times.

Stolen slaves wrapped in tefillin

Tassel-wrapped weapon bearers

Kissing mezuzahs from my holy places.

Who asked this of you: a ferret and a murderer, oppressed and robbed?

Was the slaughterhouse my homeland, the cradle of my beliefs?

Are you believers?

I'm fed up with you.

You stood on your sword and upon it your shadow.

Let go of me and I will destroy you.

I will erase your memory from under the sky.

Woe to the pilot in the sky

Whose eye is red from the blood he sheds

Woe to the listener in his cave

He who hears signals, locates his victims.

And his ears are deaf to the cry of the orphans whom he has weighed.

Woe to the shell shooter!

Drunk from his own cannon fire

The covers are covered with their own

The sound of the mourners crying in the houses he has built

Woe to the commander who hardened his heart.

Like a Pharaoh's Stone

Who raises you up on the altar of Molech, in vain.

To the glory of a tyrant, his wife, and their assistants

Oh, the unlucky one.

Warn about the arming dates

And he did not know that the mercy had expired.

Woe to the silent journalist

They ran dry and their tongue became numb.

Human blood cries out from the ground.

And the writer did not write

Woe to the statesman

The seal of death

And goes out to a hearty feast

Washes his hands in blood

And they cried in the coop with children's tears.

You were murderers,

Killing God and those created in His image

You have shed innocent blood.

War money in your belt that is on your waist

In your shoes that are on your feet.

Your voice is as harsh as the voice of Esau.

And your hands are stained with the blood of the hunted.

Of all the sons of Jacob, only two remain;

Shimon and Levi are cursed.

The darkness of Cain is your soul.

Cursed be the armies of the sons of Cain.

The torturers and the enjoyers

Commanders and animals.

And Jacob the Hittite also died at your hands.

His soft voice fell silent.

His clothes smell of fields and carnage.

And your stolen birthright is cursed with the thirst for hunting and death.

Cursed be the night your mother was taken.

And the day you were born

There is no more room in your tent.

I will never be in your company.

Because you have brandished your sword.

And you will desecrate the image of man and god.

Cursed be you forever.

Those who tear your clothes with an eye roll

And on the thousands of souls who are being poured out like water.

You will not see, you will not hear, you will not know, and you will not grieve.

May your living Christians die.

How many gods have you killed over and over again?

And there is no longer any God in Gaza, for he is buried under its ruins.

Only man will ask for their blood from your filthy hands.

Until your last day and after that you will not be breastfed.

Your time has come.

For whoever sheds man's blood, his blood shall be shed by man.