Oh me

On a sober Saturday morning, i am writing this.
I am writing this, in a cosy room somewhere on Lenin Prospekt.
Winter's wrath through the windows.
A sea of white, a stretch of snow.
Oh me.

Oh me.
On this same cold sober Saturday morning,
rains of terror, blizzard of rockets,
from the preying eyes of the damned Zionists.
When mortars and grenades are hurled and thrown,
all the Palestinians have are sticks and stones.

While i finish watching a movie.
Someone dies in misery.
While i cry to some sad soppy story.
Someone cries in agony.

Contrast at its zenith.

While i sit here waiting for my friends to cook.
Some others are queuing up for food.
For a piece of bread.
For few hundred grams of flour.
For cans of beans, meats and fish.
For survival.

Tonight i will be watching a game.
I will scream if Torres scores again.
There are screams of pain, shouts of anguish.
Somewhere in Palestine.
While i sit here with my luxury.

Oh me. Oh me.