My People My People are wicker baskets beneath a Sinai sun, withering in wait for Moses and the Unborn

Son. My people are dusty red, dry tears caked dead into seas hungry to be parted; to be saved. My people are nasal birds under squalid olive branches, squawking nevermore into the ears of corpses. My people are giant yellow CATs behind holy walls, crushing fingers clawing at their cabs. My people are war tribunals without convictions, gaily gasing infidels under guise of retribution. My people throw stones, too. My people know bombs, soggy bread and death beds; My people know the taste of hunger, the smell of rubble; the sting of steel against frightened backs; My people know Dignity's heavy throbbing, the humiliation of cloth labels and designated box cars. Never forget to always remember-My people were once soppy piles of stolen shoes; segregated songs and souls. My people were once thirteen tribes chosen to remember, to scribe, to pray. Now my people have forgotten. And it's Giza who now cries remembrance.

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