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My Family Tree
Trees don't just grow up in Palestine, They grow down as well, Deep into the rich dry earth, Down where family dwell. When I say that this land is our land, It is not for reasons that I can speak, But for the thousands of my ancestors, Who are growing beneath my feet. It is from the blood of my family, That has soaked into this land, Taken back into her earth, That makes our trees so grand. It is from the bones of my mother, That have been planted like the seeds, That mark out where our grove will thrive, What earth was best for what need. It is from the flesh of my grandmother, That out tree is daily fed, As she fed us when we were children, before laying us down to bed. It is from the hair of my sister, That the wending branches grow, So long and strong and fierce, It would take a sister to know. From the eyes of my father, Grow each of the peaking leaves, Watching me now, as he watched me then, Straightening my collar and my sleeves. It is from the feet of my brother, That formed the trunk of our tree, Sanding steadfast in this earth, Our guard for eternity. It is the word of my grandfather, That I can hear blowing in the breeze, Gently speaking out our history, Through the quiet rustle of leaves. But my child? My child. Is the fruit growing abundantly. Because my child will ripen and fall, down upon a land that is free.
A MESSAGE FROM JESSIE
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