Classic Poem

Night on the shores, your voice is no stranger,
your face is no stranger ...
To keep all things from vanishing,
I tent the wind with pegs
and scream.
The wind cascades from hill to hill,
and I hold on to rocks, walls, grass and trees.
My soul will not sink to the dregs.
Strangers have kicked me from my home by inches ...
I may be crushed or crucified or killed,
but my rebellion nothing can kill.
I swear no land will greet me but my own.

Night on the shores, your voice is no stranger ...
You sped across the East a thousand years ago,
crossed mountains of snow
and roads banked in fog
until you disappeared,
but still the traces of your horses furrow my face.
Tyrants have jailed my green orchards.
My only sky's become a storm of foxes.
The Mount of Olive's changed into a minefield.
A dam's become a forest of spears.

Something's emerging from the ground,
something we call resistance.
It rises from the dust of dynamited houses
like a ghost from the ruins.
It rises from deserted wells.
It cannot sleep in the shadow of chains.
It rises from the earth in the form of shrapnel
or sparks of fire.
Something we call resistance
rises from the earth itself at midnight
to bridge the shores of a wound.
Blessed is he who can wait until morning,
and blessed is he who fights until morning.
On the final night
when everything becomes fire and light
in our captured land,
Those watching will not forgive
those who held back the procession.

It is said:
" A land gives of its bread.
Its depths can rage us into fire.
Its very stones can become sapphires.
Pure gold is not enough to buy it,
nor can its price be weighed in silver. "