A Girl in the Occupation

In the stillness of evening, I sit with my cup,

the glow of the screen flickering dreams in my eyes,

while across the hills, in a land bruised and torn,

a girl wakes to shadows, to fears that arise.

Her dawn is not gilded with laughter or light,

but a silence so heavy it clings to her soul.

She walks through the rubble, each step like a fight,

for life and for freedom, her heart a dark hole.

I sip my warm coffee, its comfort so sweet,

the laughter around me, a balm to my cares,

but she craves the simplest, the basic, the fleet—

a crust of warm bread, a breath without snares.

Her dreams are not filled with the scenes on my screen,

but of fields where she runs, where the sun greets the day,

a place without borders, a life without pain,

yet her spirit, unyielding, refuses to sway.

I watch the bright actors, their lives free and bold,

while she clenches her fists against chains that confine,

fighting for freedom in a world grown so cold,

her voice a soft whisper, yet fierce as the pine.

With every loud explosion, her heart races fast,

and I feel my own pulse, in the comfort I hold,

a reminder that privilege is built on the past,

while her courage ignites, a fire uncontrolled.

So as I enjoy my movie, my fleeting delight,

I think of her struggle, her fight for the skies,

a girl in the shadows, whose dreams take to flight,

each breath a rebellion, each tear a rise.

And though I am distant, I will not turn away,

for her story is woven in the fabric of night,

and when the credits roll, I’ll remember to pray

for the girl in the occupation, and her quest for the light.