by Yaacov Dovid Shulman
The statesmen of the world
Are a ragged alley
Where you die alone, without glory.
Our breath has been taken away from us,
Newspapers appear with blurred absences of our faces,
Pompous words parade across the horizon
And crush us with their comedic boots.
We are owls hypnotized by light,
We are sheep hypnotized by grass.
We would prefer to be eaten and torn on the hillside
Than make our arrows drunk with blood,
Our swords consume their prey.
These are our mountains,
These are our children.
They are not nurtured by our tears,
They will not understand our dying.
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