Poems about Israel |
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Getshemane |
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Limestone of the Mount Olivet, you indifferent-looking, |
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always wakeful watcher, who heard |
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the agonized cries of the Saviourin Getshemane, |
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did you grow pale because of that? |
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Are you therefore pale as the dead, |
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as the bones which rest in your caves? |
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Does the agony of the Creator of the world |
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linger still in you: |
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"Let this cup pass from me"? |
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Men build today their houses of your pale stone. |
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You know the agony by which |
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the hate of the unburnt lime was quenched, |
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o you unsleeping. |
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Sunrise in the desert of Judea |
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(Rom. 8:18-21) |
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In the pale morning light |
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the yellowish-grey line of the horizon. |
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The corroded hills of desert limestone |
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waste, dead and still. |
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The pale horizon begins to redden, then |
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it is dyed soft yellowish orange, |
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until from the bright glowing red horizon |
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the sun ascends solemnly, |
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turning the pale grey desert clay |
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into pure gold. |
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Horeb |
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When the sun rises from the mists |
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of the Sinai mountains |
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and gleams above the silhouettes |
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of the black, red and purple mountains |
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you may witness |
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from the top of this Mount of Moses |
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the creation of the world |
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every morning. |
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"Bereshit bara Elohim et hashamaim we'et ha'arets" |
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It all happens again |
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when the sun rises |
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on the mountains of Sinai. |
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Qumran |
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In the stifled silence of sun beaten salty stones |
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mysteries of the ancient sounds |
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In the depths of the dumb stones festive chant |
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In corroded lifeless ruins ancient |
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festive processions the scent of incense |
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O pale dumb forms dead! |
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What colourful processions step out of you |
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into the burning sun! |
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O dumb forms endlessly recording |
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all that goes on around! |
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What sleeping compressions of sound whisper in you |
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to the hot air! |
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O burning white crystals of the Salt Sea! |
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What secrets of the Holy Light in you |
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in the depths of the stifling hot darkness! |
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Desert, the speech of God |
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Sun, desert, waste and void |
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made my mind devoid in their likeness, |
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colourless as the limestone. |
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The wilderness of my mind: an empty page |
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for God to speak, write. |
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On the beach, in salty wind, |
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in the green murmur of the sea |
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my ears forgot the speech of men. |
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The glittering green main, |
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the majestic lines of the mountains |
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emptied my eyes of petty insignificancies. |
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Pages of the books forgotten; |
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Psalms, sung by David here (what acoustic!) |
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were one with the play of the light and shadows |
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on the mountains, |
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with the majestic dome of the night sky, |
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with the festive hymns of the sea, sky and earth. |
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Zichron Yaqov, Spring 1978 |
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Flowers know of no war, |
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nor anemones neither the fragrant pines know of |
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brotherly hatred: |
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bombs hidden in handbags, buses blown by hand grenades, |
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young lives destroyed by shooting madly passersby, |
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lies spread by the news media; |
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they know of no ruins, but grow on them; |
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they hear not cries of the wounded, |
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but are brought to their hospital rooms. |
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Oranges hang in the shadows |
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of the deep green foliage of their trees; |
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small suns shining; |
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small prophets heralding the eternal day |
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which rose to Jacob at the river Jabboc. |
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Israel limps now in its land, it has fought |
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with God and men, it has overcome; |
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Israel: God fights. |
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