SONG OF PEACE
On the death of Rabin
Death itself is no surprise, of course,
least of all my own –
oh, but I hear you crying out
as you take the wound with me,
bled by the years, a hundred,
a thousand years of war –
this madness that would breach the garden wall
and fire into the wedding feast.
How quickly hands forget their gifts –
empty of flowers, of poems, of candles
yet to be lit;
empty of emptiness,
again you carry fists, you shout,
you run to my body as if it were in pain,
or still belonged to me.
Destiny has led me
to this ancient well, these stones washed clean,
this water cool and sweet, and flowing out
to any who thirst;
soon I will wet my face and hands,
If only I could share the cup with you,
my people, all the world,
the cup of peace.
But I cannot and this is my sorrow.
And so I keep asking to return, I keep trying
to slip back into that broken body
even as death sinks deeper –
squeeze back in, like a child
who tries to crawl into his baby bed of years ago
and he cannot fit.
But know that I live, and so will you
the holy dream made real
where we dwell together in peace,
all the sons and daughters of Abraham,
and all the children of God.
The new life opens with such welcome,
yet I would return, if I were allowed,
to the blood and dust of my ravaged land,
the struggle and the joy.
Death consumes only a particle of me;
my spirit goes on – sharing with you
the song of peace.
– Jane Galin