Once, the air of Palestine danced with zaatar,
a fragrant embrace of thyme and sumac,
where laughter mingled with the warmth of fresh bread,
and every gathering sang with the spice of home.
Mornings were wrapped in the scent of tradition,
as mothers would knead dough, their hands dusted with flour,
the smell of zaatar, like a promise of peace,
spreading through alleys, through hearts, through the hours.
But now, the fragrance has faded,
replaced by the acrid bite of gunpowder,
the sharpness of bullets, the thunder of bombs,
each explosion echoing the loss of our song.
In the stillness that follows,
the echoes of laughter are swallowed by silence,
and the joy of the table is shattered by fear—
the taste of our heritage replaced by the taste of despair.
No longer do children chase the sun through the streets,
their laughter a chorus, their hearts free as birds.
Now, they hide in shadows, hearts heavy with dread,
while the scent of zaatar turns to memories blurred.
The fields once kissed by the sun now lay scarred,
the olive trees weep as the earth cries out,
and the zaatar that once brightened the tables of kin
is a ghost in the air, a memory choked out.
Yet even as darkness encroaches and hope feels so thin,
some still whisper the recipes, the tales from the past,
and the spirit of zaatar, though buried in pain,
will rise with the dawn, through the ruins, steadfast.
For one day, when peace weaves back into our land,
the aroma of zaatar will reclaim its domain,
filling the air with the warmth of our hearts,
reminding us all of the freedom we’ll gain.
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