Poetry: Jahangir Khan
Palestine is a land—
yet still denied a nation’s name.
Its Arab people are rearranged as refugees,
scattered to Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, and Iran.
They have no houses,
no shadows to rest beneath,
no fields to grow their bread.
They own only blood to give,
and deserts forced upon their mouths.
Al-Aqsa is not a mosque alone—
it beats inside their chests.
But disgraced Zionists
tear hearts from living bodies,
and so the wounds learn how to cry.
They mourn how the graves of prophets
were stripped of dignity and winding cloths.
Ibrahim—peace be upon him—
Father of faith, not of borders,
belongs to the world of believers,
not to fabricated titles of domination.
Across history,
oppressors survive by flags and nations,
and their highest weapon is imperial power.
Yet now comes the hour of resistance:
Venezuela withstands
the imperial bombardment of the United States,
a true sister to Palestine in pain.
Iran, steadfast in the Palestinian cause,
now bleeds within manufactured chaos—
a conspiracy feeding the markets of empire.
So hold your chest full of love.
Unite the broken map of humanity.
Let peace become global,
not selective.
