A Poem For Dear Leila 'Leila in Mango and Turquoise' Leila’s a riot of colour, a splash of mango yellow against the grey, hot pink sneakers kicking up dust, a turquoise scarf that flutters like a kite caught in a dream-wind. Hebron hums beneath her feet, a pulse of ancient stone and restless streets, but Leila’s head’s up there— in the clouds, where the sky’s too busy painting itself to notice the smoke. She’s got earbuds in, beats dropping like hope bombs, a playlist of freedom— Arabic pop tangled with hip-hop, a rhythm that says not yet, not broken. Leila’s nails are electric blue, fingers snapping as she walks, dreaming of a rooftop party where the lights are neon, not flares. Leila sees it— a future in technicolour: a studio apartment with walls she’s tagged herself, graffiti flowers curling around the windows, a beat-up Vespa in lime green, zipping her through streets that don’t end in walls. She’s got a sketchbook, pages bleeding with ink— dresses she’ll design, bold as sunrise, silks that shimmer like the sea when it’s alive with her dreams. Leila’s laugh’s a spark, bright enough to light the blackout, and she dreams of a stage, mic in hand, spilling poetry that’s half rap, half prayer, words that lift the crowd until they’re all floating with her, heads in the clouds, feet untethered from the weight. Leila wants a suitcase, paint-splattered and bold, canvases rolled tight with Palestine’s heartbeat ochre for the earth, crimson for the fight, her brush telling stories. She sees souks in Amman, cedar-shaded galleries in Beirut, Tunis bustling with her art, Algiers echoing her colours, her paintings loud with rooftop beats and resilience, of a girl who won’t fade. Leila sees a night where the stars aren’t drowned by drones, where she glows in mango and turquoise, all flowers and rebellion, spinning until the world blurs into something soft, something hers. The ground shakes, but Leila doesn’t stumble— she’s too busy dreaming, too full of hope, a girl in bright colours who knows the clouds are just the start, and the sky? The sky’s waiting for her to claim it. — Taryn Zhar (@ZAZA_Zhar)