I went to the market to buy some blood. I told the owner, ‘show me your finest blood’. He pointed me in the direction of the blood that was most fresh, that of London and Paris and Manchester. ‘It is exquisite’, I told him, ‘but it is not what I am looking for’ Then he showed me the blood of Germany and Orlando and Brussels, blood that had been healing months after it had been split. ‘It is extraordinarily’, I told him, as I watched it tend to it’s wounds, ‘but it is still not what I am looking for.’ 'Is there nothing finer?’ I asked. He shook his head and replied 'sorry ma'am, that is all I have’. And with a heavy heart I turned away, ready to walk. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw a river of magnificence and magnitude, enriched with something I could not recognise. 'What is that?’ I asked, turning to them once more. 'That?’ He replied, 'It is nothing.’ 'No!’ I cried, 'tell me!’ 'That’, he said, 'is the blood that is worthless. No one wants this blood ma'am. It is discarded blood and disowned by the rest of the world’ 'Who’s is it?’ I cried. 'Well’, he said, 'where do I begin?’ And with a deep breath he said; 'It is the blood of Palestine, Infused with the cries of Syria, And the grief of Afghanistan. It is the screams of Burma, Mulled with the tears of Iraq, And the suffering of Somalia. It is the sorrows of Yemen, Alongside the weeping of Sudan, And the sweat of Pakistan.