Sunday, December 2, 2012

Summer Months (A Poem from a Few Months Ago)


Back in Israel,

Back home,

Reliving sweaty days at the kibbutz,

Sitting here writing all alone,

Feel like composing a song for my people, for the country I so love, for all I hold dear,

These sweaty July days when people in the country heed no fear,

No fear of the past, no fear of death, just longing for better days to come,

To shout out in glee,

For all that’s done is behind us,

And there are only good things, warm summer days beyond,

Where no man has walked,

Where no woman has cried,

Where no little child has fallen down,

Where no human-Jew or Arab has died.

 

As I sit, relax, sip some ice coffee in a bar just off Yehuda,

I think of days when modern-day Maccabies stood tall, the likes of Judah,

Took on armies just a few feet from where I sit,

These hot, trying days and nights are fit,

For heroes’ stories, dreams of giving back,

Of armies taking flight,

Of going on the attack.

 

I have so much love, so much desire to be here in July,

My Aliya month,

The time, I myself, tried in vain, cried out, lied,

Took hold of all that was important and moved back home,

This time in July I feel every kotel stone,

Remember my people’s past,

Remember where I came from, and my destination,

Remember to keep my dreams afloat, to drown out my frustration.

 

I’m getting used to being here,

To being happy at long last,

And people all around me cry,

As they try so hard to forget the past,

Days, months, years gone by,

We try to gather up what we’ve lost,

With every passing moment,

We struggle as we assess the cost.

 

I read Rav Kook’s “Sparks” and know what my mission in this world is

To light up the dark Av sky,

To help end this painful Exile,

To spark a flood of brotherhood and unity,

To never fully fall, always get up and try,

To keep on trying when all has failed

And I’ll know my dreams and plans have prevailed

When I open my door this very day next year

And the Messiah beckons to come near

When my People are brought back from every corner of the world

Then, and only then,

Will my own story have been told.

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