Jogging

We stood in columns like sheep before slaughter we ran, breathless We scrambled to kiss the shoes of the killers. . . . They stole Jesus the son of Mary while he was an infant still. They stole from us the memory of the orange trees and the apricots and the mint and the candles in the mosques. In our hands they left a sardine can called Gaza and a dry bone called Jericho. They left us a body with no bones A hand with no fingers. After this secret romance in Oslo we came out barren. They gave us a homeland smaller than a single grain of wheat a homeland to swallow without water like aspirin pills. Oh, we dreamed of a green peace and a white crescent and a blue sea. Now we find ourselves on a dung-heap.