You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
-Kahlil Gibran
Palestine twitches on the small white mat, struggles to raise her head, and failing, falls back again; she cries, then stops. Some slice of light has caught her attention. The nurse in bright pink carries a bird cage to the mat, and for a moment Palestine is pleased by two jumpy canaries—one black, one yellow. Now she rolls back and forth. Her legs, still bowed, kick out spasmodically. You cannot tell if she hears the music in...
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