I am working under the voices of fire – Shareef Sarhan Gaza

I was working under the voices of fire.
I was working in the night, bled white.
I was cracking open the shell to see inside.
I was sunning myself by the glow of shrapnel.
I was tunneling, tugging at something soft.
I was a tunnel
through which no one came.
I was the other end.

I slept only once in the bed of voices.
My shirt was woven of voices.
My home was built on the rubble of voices.
I planted green grapes in the black loam.
I chopped voices into splinters.

There were voices.
In our new names, in the finishing rooms there were voices. So did
the harness, hood, shackles, broom handles have voices.
In the child the voices were spinning.
God was no-voice.

Rain fell in persistent voice.
People touched each other. Their hands were voices.
Mud spurted upward
at the bullet’s blue voice, the water-pouring-down-the-throat-voice.

Voices unleashed
voices of detonator, devourer, procurer, pit-maker,
tattoo artist: Voices were emptied into drains.
Some carried the cross of voices; some wore halos of voices,
some were quarantined voices, or voices hung on nails.
Some whistled to the voices, their bones clacking in rhythm.

The voices of the dead are deltas.
The voices of the dead are a river-bed.
The voices of the dead are whale spume.
The voices of the dead are deep.