THE PROMISE-WEIGHT

Beneath the tent-ribs, Yamma’s breath a thread,

Ukhti’s small hand clutched cold in Amir’s own.

Thirteen hard years scourged his frame, a hunger-fed,

Gaunt architecture built of skin and bone.

He kissed her brow, “Ukhti, be strong for Yamma.”

The promise hung: Bread by the evening’s fall.

Twelve kilometres etched in Gaza’s drama,

A pilgrim tracing hope’s mirage-lined wall.

 

West Rafah called. His feet, bare maps of stone

Knew every shard, each rutted track and dune.

They say that place gives bread and death as one;

That bullets greet the starving every noon.

But Amir knew no other path to try-

He walked the razor edge where hopes undo.

The sun, a molten coin, beat flesh to bone,

A kiln where will alone held hunger true.

 

A river rose- gaunt bodies moving slow

Toward rumoured gates, where white men gave reprieve.

He joined the flow, let grief and worry go,

Fixed on one thought: What Yamma must receive.

The fence loomed stark. A crush of bone and sigh,

Sweat’s sting, the sand’s relentless burn and glare.

Hope choked the air, thick as the desert sky,

As hidden watchers tracked the tide of prayer.

 

Then came a groan- a surge, a sudden shout.

Amir slipped eel-like through the human stream,

Threaded the gaps where stronger men gave out,

And reached the front- a sliver of a dream.

A canvas chair. A man with hair like flax,

Hands giving parcels, sealed and clean and square.

Amir stepped up, received the precious stacks:

Flour’s pale promise, lentils’ sober care.

Joy, sharp and sudden, pierced the hollow ache.

He placed the burdens down upon the ground,

Then cupped the startled stranger’s face, to make

Thanks flesh: dry palms on cheeks, a silent sound.

He raised the weathered hand, pressed lips, devout,

To knuckles pale. A benediction brief.

“Thank you.” The English words, a fragile shout

Against the vast indifference of grief.

He gathered up the promise-weights anew

Turned homeward, heart a bird despite the load.

 

A thump. A sting. A hiss. The grey plume grew,

Thick serpent coiling on the aid-strewn road.

Confusion’s fist clenched tight. A gasp, a cry.

He ran. Pure instinct, legs like splintered reeds

Propelled by terror’s lash beneath the sky.

Then came the sound- the harvest of grim seeds-

Sharp cracks that split the air, that hunted men.

Don’t look. Just run. Just run. His mantra beat.

But sudden force, a searing then,

Drove breath and balance from his stumbling feet.

 

He fell. The parcels flew. A crate-edge tore

The lentil sack. Small stones of hope burst free,

A scatter-pattern on the dusty floor.

The flour sack landed, spilling partially.

He clawed the grit. Get up! Retrieve! Command

Issued, ignored. His limbs were foreign clay.

He dragged an arm, a wounded crab on land,

Toward the lentils lost beside the way.

 

That’s when he saw the river, swift and bright,

Crimson and urgent, flowing from his core.

His own life’s tide, relentless in its flight,

Overtook lentils spilled upon the floor.

It swirled around them, stained them, deep and rich,

A grotesque irrigation, warm and fast.

Pain bloomed, immense. The world began to pitch,

A warmth that promised it would be the last.

 

Tears blurred. He blinked, one monumental strain.

Saw clearly: lentils drowned in vibrant red.

The sun beat down. He whispered through the pain,

"Sorry, Yamma… Ukhti… I found… the bread.

I rest… but... just for… a little while…" The light

Flickered. The promise-weight dissolved in red

The flour ghosted pale in fading sight.

The river carried all the words unsaid.

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