The Dogs are Feasting in Gaza

The Dogs Are Feasting

Gaza’s streets are shattered,

bombed out and battered.

Under the rubble, cries and whispers for help

have faded away, swallowed by stone.

The schools, once filled with laughter,

are now hollowed shells of despair.

Tunnels collapse beneath the weight of war,

their secrets buried with the bodies they hide.

The dogs are feasting.

They crawl through the tunnels, noses to the dust,

slithering under beams where light cannot reach.

Their claws scrape against concrete and bone,

their teeth tear at what war has left behind.

hunting all the corpses they can find.

their feast laid bare in the darkened depths.

No grave is sacred; no flesh is spared—

this is survival in a world undone.

The dogs are feasting.

Their lean frames, their bones showed hunger,

now swell with the flesh of the forgotten.

They roam through playgrounds turned graveyards,

their growls the only sound in the silence

A child’s shoe lies untouched in the dust,

its owner lost to the chaos above and below.

No hands remain to reach for it;

no voices rise to call them home.

The air reeks of decay, of dreams undone.

Even the sun turns its face from this place,

leaving only shadows to bear witness.

And still the bombs fall.

Still the earth trembles and caves in on itself.

Still the dogs grow fat—

while Gaza starves for peace.

The Dogs Feast .

While this is no peace

The Dogs Feast