The moon weeps over Palestine
            weaving tears into silvery shrouds.
Tiny, soft and cosy for the babies
            who’d not yet memorised their father’s lullabies
            and not once fallen asleep sated on mother’s milk.
Multiverses of story brighten the nightscape.     Softly softly
sagas of belongingness and liberation drift over land and seas.

Starlight starbright I wish I may I wish I might
write a poem so powerful and true
            that it could swiftly fell a rogue army —
            to be forgotten in the sands of time.
And write a book so scathing of so-called Australia
            that Windschuttle would turn in his grave
            seething that he cannot compose a rebuttal.

Oh, twinkling stars why do you ignore our urgent wishes?
Will you plead to the heavens for us?     Petition the deities
            to wreak wrath over mortals for their inhumanity.
Would you take up jagged swords of lightning
            to help courageous resistance fighters repel oppressors?
Occupation, settlement, apartheid, genocide, massacres, torture
stolen children, scorched earth, settler deception.     On and on it goes.

There’s so much injustice we need to stand up against    to speak out about.
            Another grieving mother addresses another death in custody protest
            and Elders demand racist un-justice systems are held accountable.
Ancestors infuse Blackfellas with the strength, knowledge and love needed
            to speak up about systemic racism, racialised injustice, death by racism
            and stand up against desecration of Country and setter-colonial violence.
Meanwhile     uninvited whitefellas whinge about being welcomed to Country.

Ridiculous people     bullies     puffed up on power and privilege   
            strut around offices, in parliament, on the streets, in the media
sowing social confusion.     Spreading false narratives of dangerous
un-Australian anti-racist pro-justice dissidents threatening social cohesion.    
Criticism of colonisation, systemic whiteness and genocide are not tolerated.
Non-compliant writers have awards revoked, events cancelled, books burnt.
Meanwhile     Palestinian poets are being assassinated by apartheid Israel.

In Palestine     soul of our soul    Indigenous people endure decades of oppression.
Clasping treasured brass keys, matriarchs stare down the soulless IOF soldiers.
With faith in freedom, resistance fighters armed with sticks defy antagonists.
Dodging cowardly assassins fuelled with hate, doctors rush to the rescue.
And olive trees that have listened to generations of children’s laughter
bury their roots deeper deeper    as settlers burn them to the ground.
The land will always recognise its people.    Kin knows kin.

I wish this poem could clearly articulate what it means to witness
and confront the narrow-minded who rail when martyrs are mourned.
To the bad faith lobbyists who menacingly hover, waiting to strike again
– bring it on!     I’m prepared to go louder, bolder, more steadfast.
I laugh whole-heartedly at you ridiculous free-speech fraudsters
who flay about with your puny cancel culture     failing to silence me.
But I digress. I am not the story.     Palestinian writers are being bombed.

The shrill naked emperors, pearl clutching opinion writers, vacant eyed journalists
and privileged lobbyists who endeavour to sabotage truth     they’re not the story.
Ending genocide and apartheid is the story. Palestinian liberation is the story.
Aboriginal rights is the story. Truth, justice, treaties and land back is the story.
Global Indigenous peoples’ solidarity and joy is the story. Kinship is the story.
            Always was always will be
                                    from the river to the sea.

Starlight starbright, I wish I may …     No! Fuck that pleading nonsense. 
Fuck those génocidaires and apologists. Fuck white supremacy.
Fuck this dishonest settler-colonial state. Fuck the other ones, too.
If those disruptive settlers — who even the sun disapproves of — insist
I’m a danger to social blah blah cohesion     then dangerous I will be!
I’ll dishevel my hair and don the disposition of a pissed-off banshee.
Starlight starbright starmight    when’s the fucking revolution

Image: Rasel Ali