En route to Gaza
There are not more fences than barbed wire on the
way into Gaza.
In the gray rain of a dirty early morning, the city looks like a huge swamp of
spilled garbage, walls stained with red spurs of hatred, crumbling houses and
viscous streets where kids wade through mud crisscrossed with tire tracks.
Desolation.
Iron curtain lowered.
Gray minarets and rats dead along the road with a few women in black, wearing a long white haik, carrying their packages on their
heads, glowing eyes leaking through their thin triangle of vision.
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