Amir

Twelve kilometers blistered small feet walked

through another rubble-strewn Gaza morning

seeking what children should never have to seek—

survival measured in handfuls of rice,

half-bags of drug laced flour,

lentils counted like their unheard prayers

And when the scraps came

Poured into such small palms

how hunger makes gratitude

of dust and fragments

he kissed a hand

and said thank you

for what should have been his birthright

Those become the last words

before the bullets found him

before mercy became murder

before gratitude became gravesite

Twelve kilometers to die

for daring to be hungry

for daring to be grateful

for daring to exist

And somewhere in offices

with minimum wage polished floors

they will call this collateral

they will call this justified

they will call this anything

but the murder of a child

who walked twelve kilometers

to say thank you

But Amir is a name to carry now

Here—where witness still exists

Here—where the forgotten raise their voices

for small hands that will never hold food again

for gratitude that ended in gunfire

for the terrible mathematics

of a childhood in Gaza:

twelve kilometers walked

two words spoken

one life erased

And I, witness to this witness,

know this ancient pattern

About how empire teaches hunger

then murders the hungry

how occupation makes criminals

of innocent children seeking bread

Amir walked twelve kilometers

Amir said thank you

Amir is dead

Remember this equation

when they speak of defense

when they count their justified dead:

A child’s gratitude

met with bullets

is the sound of what remains of conscience

dying