Three Poems from Gaza
What Darkness Holds
By Taqwa Ahmed Alwawi
O long night,
were we not once friends?
No—we were more than friends.
You were shelter.
You were born for silence,
for slow breathing—
not for this weight upon the chest.
By day I scatter my thoughts in noise,
but when you arrive
the walls begin to murmur.
I fear you now, night.
Not because of your darkness,
but because of what your darkness holds.
The people I have lost stand silently in corners—
watching me.
I hear the laughter of a martyred friend.
I call out a name, and it is just a breeze
moving through the curtains.
Each memory has footsteps.
Each absence has an echo.
Sleep runs when I reach for it,
leaving me to count shadows on the wall
instead of dreams.
Insomnia is not new to me, though.
It sits beside me like an old enemy,
or an old friend.
I want to cry,
but my eyes refuse–
everything inside me weeps,
but my eyes remain dry.
I wait for daylight
like a prisoner waits for a crack in the wall.
O night—
if we were ever friends,
remember me.
One day, I believe
you will be kind again, night.
You will lower your voice.
You will no longer rattle the windows inside my chest.
You will not be
the night of ghosts
or of bombing,
of drones,
of cries of injury and grief.
O sleep,
return to me.
Let the night be silent.
Let my ghosts find peace.
My Heart Keeps Walking Towards You
By Taqwa Ahmed Alwawi
I get lost in photographs of you
and the fire of memory burns inside my ribs.
Our laughter spills from the paper
and pixels. The warmth of your eyes,
for one trembling second
makes my lips curve into a smile
before my heart splits down the middle
as I remember I am standing
on the ruins of who we were.
I see you breathing there,
still alive inside those frozen moments.
I want to step into the picture
and take your hand.
I am still here.
In the same place.
Standing on the same floor
where the news of your martyrdom
fell from someone’s mouth
and broke the ground beneath me.
I cannot overcome your death.
I build a life around the wound.
I stitch myself slowly
around a hollow I cannot fill.
And still…
my heart keeps walking toward you.
I see you everywhere
in the street, in the market,
in my dreams,
but you are gone
and my grief doesn’t end.
I harbor the firm hope
that we will meet once more
in the highest gardens of Paradise,
where no war exists,
where no goodbye is necessary,
and where we will never
be taken from each other again.
The Infinite Mind
By Taqwa Ahmed Alwawi
Night settles.
My lamp stays on.
Dust motes float in its cone of light
while my thoughts circle the room.
A door that never quite shuts.
Beyond it:
a look you gave me once,
the breath you took
before deciding not to speak.
A sentence from years ago
returns without warning,
like water rising through the floor,
soaking my shoes.
Every detail grows loud:
the scrape of a chair,
the intake of breath before goodbye,
the way a name is repeated
or avoided.
I pace this room alone,
fingertips brushing the wall,
memorizing each mark, each echo.
I long for sleep,
but there is only this endless tide
of thought, wave after wave
in the infinite night.
Taqwa Ahmed Alwawi is a Palestinian writer, poet, and editor based in Gaza, born in 2006. She studies English language and literature at the Islamic University of Gaza. As a dedicated chronicler and custodian of her people’s memory, she amplifies Gaza’s voice, illuminating stories that are often overlooked or silenced. Her work has been featured on more than 30 leading international platforms and prestigious publications. Her portfolio:https://