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| Hasan Newash Oil in Thyme and Hot Bread Percussion rains on the memorial Of Abdeen's mother Near Kalkaska's Indian Reservation In Mancelona, Northern Michigan While you rush before the rain of bullets In Wadi Essarar, outside Jerusalem It seems to always rain in Wadi Essarar Rubber bullets- they call them. Rubber is softer On the ear, as dumdum inside flares Between the eyes, to bleed to death Usama's dream of being first In sixth grade, next September Loud percussion On Manger Street, a tank on guard You eye the children only steps away In a fateful war against the army teens Who've just arrived From "Operation Uproot" A pre-dawn battle Against a 100 trees- olive trees Of Roman vintage, in Beit Sahour Loud percussion Here, has come for children Road blocks, tire burnings - The scene is not Sewato - Sarar a blanket on every inch Of Manger Square, where "Love Thy neighbor..." now is stillborn Their rights of passage- shabab Will play the game A barrage of stones against the enemy Face and dodge A rain of fire Retreat behind Bullet-poked walls, and re-emerge A surprise- guerrilla style Then do it all again Percussion reigns And children always lose: A life- sometimes A leg, an eye - still to grow inside A blinding vision Of purple grapes In family's orchard Stolen village waiting Behind the electric fence And dream of bolting shut This prison- misnomered: Deheishe Camp Percussion, percussion The game is on today And sarar is everywhere As bullets too, and tanks are watching While the White House watches The Philadelphia Eagles against the Redskin's And the Washington Bullets against the Chippewa Indians They are back to back, today, on NBC You hear the cry from Wounded Knee As "Red Skin's" beat the drums A loud percussion They carve a path in fire glows Defiance Oil in thyme is waiting Just behind those hills And bread is hot in all the taboons Percussion fires The wave of children singing Waving all to follow Their beacon home |
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