Threads of the land

In every stitch, a story sewn,
Of olive groves and hills long known,
Of jasmine nights and sunburnt stone
Embroidery becomes a home.

A thobe of red, of black, of green,
Tells tales that live where eyes have seen
The keffiyeh dance in desert wind,
And roots resist what tries to end.

The cross-stitch sings of mothers' hands,
Of grandmothers who stitched the land,
Mapping the fields in crimson thread,
Where fig trees bloom and martyrs bleed.

Each pattern bears a village name,
A prayer, a promise, wrapped in flame,
Of love that won't be bought or sold,
A history stitched in marigold.

The needle pierces, never pain,
But proof that beauty will remain.
The thread, a lifeline, proud and wide,
Connect the ones who won't divide.

So hold the fabric, let it speak,
Of Palestine in every peak,
In every woven line, you'll see
A people’s heart, forever free.