They built their tunnels deep into the sky.
“No one, will find us here,” they thought.
They watched their children playing soccer.
They saw their grandmothers making bread.
They knew the teen boy, so like themselves,
under the olive tree, eating watermelon,
writing a love letter on his phone.
His beloved, not far from the checkpoint
where soldiers were cocking new rifles,
was eating an orange, reading his words.
From the sky, they smelled water and death,
their own/not their own, brewing from
the kitchen of the grandmothers awaiting
their children coming home for dinner.
When they look left and then right, they
noticed all the other tunnels everywhere.
From the Sky
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