Israel, april 2002, and later

In this land it is too bright to go outside without sunglasses.
Strong light glares from the golden stone.
Everything should be warm
and the air filled with embraces.
You would hope to hear the ticking of cicadas
and small stones tumbling slowly from dry walls.
You remember the words of hope:
they shall beat their swords into ploughshares 
and their spears into pruning hooks
nation shall not lift up sword against nation…
And they shall sit, everyone under his vine or under his fig tree
basking in shadow, contented.

Murderous brigands, bloodthirsty bandits
why have you forgotten everything?
But I should have known.
You always stoned your prophets
Or crucified them