Oct 7, 2010

For Raja Shehadeh

I won’t go back to the ashen hills
where the shattered donkey died.
A premature sacrifice,
just another dead donkey.

I won’t go back to the echoing walls.
A falcon streaks below,
and above, the crows.

I won’t go back to the broken hills of Judea,
and who shaped the ruined gardens,
to drift among the earthly cyclamen clouds?

I know of those gardeners and their lovely gardens.

I won’t go back to the ghosts of Nabi Musa,
or to the springs, descending with my heart,
to the bitter, shrinking sea.

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