What color are you frustrated, dear me?

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I want to wake up to a day when I heal my pain and do not cry, in fact, I want to wake up to a day when I heal my pain and do not cry in the future.
It's like a poppy on the slope of the city.
Or the souls of so many oppressed, whom I touched with our enthusiasm as much as we were enthusiastic in the gardens of paradise when we had a dream time.
My torso or my feet and my upright head, maybe my rebellion to the injustice of the world, and here I let myself on one side and the world burning on the other.
While a Palestinian child is standing as of the moment and thanks to my Lord, my country and my people are the main guests and spectators in such a complicated play.
If this day is a holiday tomorrow, I have a funeral and the next day I will open my eyes and see if I will complete the day just like my friends and when I lost my family, no one wishes for happy holidays to each other.
Today is holiday.
Hell tomorrow.
In fact, we are all in heaven, but when my family was left with no one left, my color faded while I was condemning this world with regret.
My child is just a dead child: even if I am not dead, I know that I will be tomorrow as of the moment.
I am a child, sometimes the child of an immigrant and my body hitting the beach.
I am a child, in whichever country I live in, and if the hands touching my body are my soul, the fire place and the bones in the grave aching, I spit at humanity when humanity is actually dead.
My soul is not freed.