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January 15th, 2026
Young Poets 13 to 15 Contest #1 – First Place
by Ayaana Rahman
The children of soldiers, ordinary women lie in dust The rubble that crushed their dreams The swords that are now consumed by rust The heart that skips a beat, The fear that made them lose their sleep Because even the olive tree weeps. Noor will braid jasmine in the smoke, so the children will remember flowers, Omar, whose kites flew higher than checkpoints allowed Mariam held the branch, she held it steady The tree weeps, and the land listens Mother, I am the olive seed you planted in your prayer. They said our birthright to breathe is not ours to keep, But they don't know, even the olive tree weeps. Bring them home, bring them home. Our sons named Nidal, our daughters named Lina We'll keep the lantern lit, keep eyes on the invaders Listen to the silence of children Look for our mothers They took them away from our tree, And left the olive tree to weep. Now all lie in white bedsheets, Alarms and voices all around Bombs and guns going off outside the hospitals, Go save the other children, said the daughter of Hasan The last lullaby was heard, but they still said I will grow mother, even here, even now. I will grow, said the son of Amal. Keep the flag high, make the tree proud Mother, get some sleep, And now don't ever let the olive tree weep. Author note: This poem is inspired by stories of Palestine and the endurance of its people.
About the Poet
Ayaana Rahman resides in Prayagraj, Uttar Pradesh, India.
Read the poet's biography and Young Poets World publications
on Ayaana Rahman's Artist Page.
Young Poets Collection
This poem is also featured in
Young Poets Collection #1,
published in the Young Poets World Library.
Keywords: Palestine, children, women, sorrow
Previously published in Young Poets 13 to 15:
Untitled 707
by Vladyslava Manuilenko
Young Poets 13 to 15 is part of Young Poets World and waxpoetryart.com.
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