Monday, September 15, 2003

There is an Israel outside of the conflict. Here's something from one of her finest poets:

by Amir Gilboa

At dawn, the sun strolled through the forest together with me and my father, and my right hand was in his left.

Like lightning a knife flashed among the trees, and I am terrified of my eyes horror, faced by blood upon the leaves.

Father, father, quickly rescue Yitzhak, so no one will be missed at the midday meal.

It is I who am slaughtered, my son, and already my blood is on the leaves. And my father's voice was smothered, and his face was pale.

And I wanted to scream, writhing not to believe, and tearing open my eyes. And I woke up.

And my right hand was drained of its blood.


Post a Comment

<< Home