Words don't feed the hungry but silence feeds starvation

In Gaza,

Mazeez cooks from fodder and dry twigs,
while a mother cradles Mohammad,
a body crumbling in her arms.

Adam is weighed on his mother’s palm; while hunger itself
has become the unit of measure for weight.

In Yemen,
women cross the desert for a single sack of food. Saba breathes on her mother’s borrowed air.
And the image of Amal Hussein
still bends the world like a stalk in heat,
then leaves it standing without shade.

In Sudan,
the tents of Zamzam rise from mud.
Latifa waves a wrist thinner than thread.
Hawa lays Walid on straw,
asks the nurse: “How much world remains for him?”
The reply is only a number
and numbers, when starved,
consume the living.

In distant camps,
people share a handful of salt
as if it were news.
Every hungry soul is a prophecy others refuse to hear,
every drop of milk,
a miracle for the camps.

You. You, passers of glowing screens,
do not add silence to hunger.
Say:“This child is mine,”
even if he lives on another map.

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