Not the tanks we heard one morning The drone of airplanes overhead The crumbling of the ground from underneath our feet as the village grew dark Or the way their voices rumbled as they entered our homes – Were they speaking Arabic? Or German? Or perhaps it was Swahili? Nor the grey landscape which we saw after, Ghosts pits skulls smoldering huts. Emaciated hands, outstretched. Desperate footprints across the sand. The chilled air of Poland, Kosovo’s silent eyes. Not a two-dimensional name on placards At the foot of Capitol Hill, Or a rubber bracelet gracing soft young arms. Drained activists, weary of never again – Petitions and Facebook groups will save millions. Just a windy village of dust Women carrying jugs on their heads And a pot of aseeda stew over cooling embers. Small dark hands and feet, giggles and skips Inta naari w’laheebi, qadari w’naseebi. Colorful headscarves, sacks of sesame seeds tomatoes grapefruits Sweaty young men playing football, old man telling the young of the Good Wizard Drums and bagpipes and lutes in the desert night– Iw-ana a’ishqaq, will-a’ishqi maraar.
won a prize at the Yeshiva University contest