Dinichen

I'm six and seven And up to eleven, Then I'm an adult In an Israeli court My hands tied in the back of my back He comes to me with a punch and a sack. He covers my head with a hood of Zionist stench Though my belly is tough, it will not flinch. The noise is loud and pierces my brain. My pathetic shirt hangs proud with a fresh blood stain. My poor mother is worried sick, I'm sure. She burried my brother before me. She will endure. And my dad too, depression got him in the end With no home, no land, no olive trees to tend. I'm in here for days on end Or is it months or even years, I no longer comprehend. The noise is too loud A