Olives and Popies copyright Khairat Al-SalehI wrote this poem several years ago. It is about the death of a child of Palestine. Many children died during the Intifada and many children died recently in Gaza. I think our genes are programmed to protect children and not to accept their death. I am dreaming of a day when the Palestinian children will have the chance to grow up normally like all other children, to laugh and play and watch children's TV, as they ehave xpressed so eloquently during the war.
I died in fair Jerusalem this spring, mother
I took a great leap not knowing I could Jump so high
Aiming my stones at that terrible darkness
Which crept too close to the ancient walls, mother
Too close to the hallowed groves
O too too close to the golden dome.
The light went out for a moment
Then I was lifted to the orchard of God.
Don't cry for me, mother
I felt your warm breath on my brow
In my hair
As my heart exploded in the crimson space
Hurling rivulets of anemones into the air.
But I rose in peace
And a voice cried
Behold, Christ has risen.
For the first time in my life, mother
I can hear the luminous song of the olives
For they do hum and sway with ancient murmurings,
And the earth, mother
The earth which they have taken away from us
Feels vibrant and soft as it digs down my roots
Through years far far beyond my years
Years I have never learnt how to count.
O mother, ecstasy fills my heart for I am so ancient
With the ancientness of this beloved earth.
I can sleep and dream now.
I died in fair Jerusalem at the intersection of two springs
To live, mother, for once to live in a freedom
Which the shadow of the gun will not desecrate.
I was born to a lost inheritance, mother
My orphaned soil hanging like a curse around my neck.
I was born the despised
The dispossessed
The outcast.
Had I known that a stone throw
Was all that stood between me and my birthright
I would have taken the high leap
Even before I had learnt how to walk
I feel proud mother, and when I walk,
I glide like a queen.
I hear the laughter of numerous children
in the regal olives chanting
Peace Peace Peace
And at dawn mother
Of every undying morning
I join the choir of the ringed doves
To weave a song of my longing
Around the golden Dome.
Don't cry for me mother
For I am content
I am at home.
But if you need to know where to find me
It must be in the spring mother
It must be among the red anemones and poppies
And it must be when all the guns are silent
I took a great leap not knowing I could Jump so high
Aiming my stones at that terrible darkness
Which crept too close to the ancient walls, mother
Too close to the hallowed groves
O too too close to the golden dome.
The light went out for a moment
Then I was lifted to the orchard of God.
Don't cry for me, mother
I felt your warm breath on my brow
In my hair
As my heart exploded in the crimson space
Hurling rivulets of anemones into the air.
But I rose in peace
And a voice cried
Behold, Christ has risen.
For the first time in my life, mother
I can hear the luminous song of the olives
For they do hum and sway with ancient murmurings,
And the earth, mother
The earth which they have taken away from us
Feels vibrant and soft as it digs down my roots
Through years far far beyond my years
Years I have never learnt how to count.
O mother, ecstasy fills my heart for I am so ancient
With the ancientness of this beloved earth.
I can sleep and dream now.
I died in fair Jerusalem at the intersection of two springs
To live, mother, for once to live in a freedom
Which the shadow of the gun will not desecrate.
I was born to a lost inheritance, mother
My orphaned soil hanging like a curse around my neck.
I was born the despised
The dispossessed
The outcast.
Had I known that a stone throw
Was all that stood between me and my birthright
I would have taken the high leap
Even before I had learnt how to walk
I feel proud mother, and when I walk,
I glide like a queen.
I hear the laughter of numerous children
in the regal olives chanting
Peace Peace Peace
And at dawn mother
Of every undying morning
I join the choir of the ringed doves
To weave a song of my longing
Around the golden Dome.
Don't cry for me mother
For I am content
I am at home.
But if you need to know where to find me
It must be in the spring mother
It must be among the red anemones and poppies
And it must be when all the guns are silent
Poem by Khairat Al-Saleh
