written by jude hammouda
The fertile soil of the motherland waiting to bear the fruits of her peoples labor
Ready to bear children of love in her welcoming womb
National cuisines would not be complete without her love
Her love to grow such things others admire,
Longing for the feast of their country
Tart jaffa oranges, overwhelmingly sticky juice dripping between your fingers
Gloomy winter days made up with the sunny flavor of each slice
oil extracted from the sacred olives, or
Smashed with a rock from the garden, opening up each morsel, ready to be brined
Brined in love, history and tradition
Green almonds with the crunch felt in your soul,
wait a couple weeks and get the beloved sweet brown fragment
Homegrown watermelon, representant of our home colors
Green outer layer, the thick skin protecting the innards from invaders
White sublayer, color of the peaceful clouds before the smoke
Red succulent flesh, the blood of my people spilled in the streets, down each gutter
Black little seeds, like the black little gifts from the platoon to each home
A flash of light as bright as the oranges
A morsel as precious as an olive
A crunch that shakes your soul, leaving fragments within you.