A hush falls down where winter grips the land,
And tents like trembling ghosts shake through the night;
The rain seeps slow through rips no hands can mend,
While bitter winds slip in with cruel bite.
The children shiver, teeth like chimes of frost,
And mothers press what thin cloths they can find;
The wind cuts sharp, and every step feels lost,
As daylight fades and leaves the cold behind.
The mud clings heavy through the morning mist.
Each burdened step—a heart too full to bear;
The wind cuts sharp, a needle through each wrist,
And sorrow hangs like frost upon the air.
Beneath this storm, all warmth is swept away,
And night devours the fragile edge of day.
Khaled Al-Qershali
November 21, 2025
Khaled Al-Qershali is an English graduate working as a journalist in Gaza.
