Hazel strands burble down her spine, seizing the Jordan river.

Stacked with bare feet, toddling her back, she’s an orphan river.

Wide hips and slender waist, curves emulating the streets of Ghaza.

Grandmother, can I braid your hair? It’s as silky as a bourbon river.

Honey drips from between her thighs, sweet enough to make bastards slobber.

She turns predators into parched preys, yearning for a drop of her spartan river.

Behind poisoned bars, we exchange starved letters.

Oh, how I long for a taste of your barren river.

I trace her face with my finger, memories peek through her wrinkles.

Whoever dares to erase her features, shall inhale her scorching river.

Crying my name – Yara, why won’t you dive in these waters?

Rest easy my love, when the sun mourns over the fallen doves of Haifa, I’ll be floating on the morning river.