Don't ask me how I'm feeling.
Because I'm reeling.
No, no ask me...please.... ask!
Because I’ll tell you
even if you don't inquire,
even though I'm drained
of all routine desire.
I want to tell you. I really do.
I don't want to be alone
emoting so much blue.
I need to report it.
Or should I say, deport it.
What is the right word
for all my anguish?
What explains this weeping?
This mood unrelenting, creeping
as a shadow
follows me around
from my bedroom to the kitchen,
From the market to the plaza?
I know the diagnosis—it is Gaza.
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