| | Haifa, July 26, 2006
My friend took a bowl today,
with soapy loving hands he washed
his white shoes, didn't hear the warplanes
flying overhead, roaring overhead.
His shoes were as white as the fluffy clouds
That hid the rockets falling on the city
Just a half an hour's walk from wher eI sleep.
People slept and died, as I awoke, afraid.
His shoes ran him to the shelters each time
The sirens tore into our lives ... he was
Proud to scrub at dusty laces that may yet
Save his life, and take him underground.
He's lucky, my friend, his shoes as cruelly
White as the sky ... sneakers, like clouds
That take him far away. He's lucky because
for his work, he earns the right to fly.
But I must look to the clouds for hope,
As I was taught to all my life
And I must look in fear as I was taught
by just two weeks of war.
And I will ponder the strange sameness
Of a bomb shelter and a grave,
And think of my war, the sirens, the clouds,
The fear, beautiful Haifa,
And my friend, squatting on the floor
of our balcony, polishing his dusty wings.
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| | Posted 8/14/2006 8:44 PM - 18 Views - 6 eProps - 3 comments
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