I offer this poem while fresh fires still bloom over Gaza’s sky—words braided in grief and resolve, sent to bear witness and to plead for the quiet our shared humanity deserves.
In the midst of turmoil, a comparison unfolds between the Bulbul/Nightingale (used in Persian, Urdu and other Indo-Islamic literary traditions) and the Cuckoo. The Bulbul, a symbol of light and melody, symbolizing resilience weaves its nest with care, while the Cuckoo, symbolizing intrusion stealthily usurps the night.
🐦⬛ The Bulbul’s Lament
O Bulbul of the dawn-lit bough,
You sang of jasmine, freedom’s vow;
Yet see the brood-thief Cuckoo now—
Its borrowed notes eclipse your own.
In alien shell it cloaked its hue,
Then tipped your fragile dreams below,
And drank the dew meant just for you,
Till hunger gnawed the marrow of the throne.
O nest that sheltered wanderers’ cry,
Remembered mercy’s open gate;
How kindly wings once let them lie—
But kindness met an iron fate.
Their fledglings, fat with others’ toil,
Spilled songless hearts upon the loam;
And while the Cuckoo named it “soil,”
The Bulbul watched them call it “home.”
Three storms have torn the cedar down,
The fourth still rails with fiery gust;
Though feathers bleach on ashen ground,
The tyrant asks for deeper trust.
Yet every embered lullaby
That rises from Gaza’s night
Ascends the vault of silent sky
And bears its grief to Allah’s sight.
O sleepers in the distant west,
Whose mornings bloom without a scar—
Will you not guard the plundered nest,
Nor see the wound beneath the star?
For every child whose cradle broke,
The Reckoner records the cries;
No citadel, no thunder-stroke
May drown the truth of widening skies.
Awake your khudi, shake off the dust,
Stand witness where the meek endure;
Lift shattered voices, speak the just—
A conscience cleansed becomes a cure.
Let rivers roll from hearts of stone,
Let olive branches root in light;
For he who hoards another’s throne
Must answer at the court of night.
The Bulbul waits with broken wing,
Yet hope still throbs in wounded breast;
Injustice is a passing king,
And dawn shall judge the ruthless guest.
So hush the Cuckoo’s hollow lore,
Restore the nest, the hush of peace;
For when one mother weeps no more,
The garden’s ancient songs increase.
Bulbul’s Cry: A Song for Gaza
