If I die one day from the bullet of a young killer--
a Palestinian who crosses the northern border--
or from the blast of a hand grenade he throws,
or in a bomb explosion while I'm checking the price
of cucumbers in the market, don't dare say
that my blood permits you to justify your wrongs--
that my torn eyes support your blindness--
that my spilled guts prove it's impossible
to talk about an arrangement with them
to talk about an arrangement----that it's only possible
to talk with guns, interrogation cells, curfew, prison,
expulsion, confiscation of land, wisecracks, iron fists, a steel heart
that thinks it's driving out the Amorites and destroying the Amalekites.
Let the blood seep into the dust: blood is blood, not words.
Terrible--the illusion of the Kingdom in obtuse hearts.