Bassam Aramin tells his son of his childhood pastime of throwing stones at the Israeli soldiers
I was a boy.
I threw stones, my hands made rough by throwing.
The soldiers stood by, called out, “Go home, boy, go home.”
The soldiers waved stone and only smiled for home.
I threw stones, my hands made rough by throwing.
I know the anger blazing your chest the fiery gold of the riotous sun.
The soldiers waved stone and only smiled for home,
and I know the tears you will not shed.
I know the anger blazing your chest the fiery gold of the riotous sun.
Your sister’s eyes were bright, round, and very dark,
and I know the tears you will not shed.
The rubber bullet pierced her skull.
Your sister’s eyes were bright, round, and very dark,
and I know this because I saw that boy’s eyes.
The rubber bullet pierced her skull,
and his eyes were dark, very bright, and round.
And I know this because I saw that boy’s eyes
when the soldiers unloaded a cartridge into his chest,
and his eyes were dark, very bright, and round
when the stones tumbled warm from his fingers and hit the ground in
three
soft
thuds.
When the soldiers unloaded a cartridge into his chest,
his hand fell so slow from the sky
when the stones tumbled warm from his fingers.
So heavy with love unsung.
His hand fell so slow from the sky.
Your hands will become rough with throwing.
So heavy with love unsung,
your nails will crack with the pressure of this earth.
Your hands will become rough with throwing.
I tell you boy, this is true:
Your nails will crack with the pressure of this earth.
Here I stand, and I call out to you.
I tell you boy, this is true:
With my hands open, my eyes upturned to God,
here I stand, and I call out to you.
“Come home, child, come home.”
With my hands open, my eyes upturned to God,
the soldiers stood by and waved me on.
“Come home, child, come home.”
You are only a boy.