to the matyr Abu 'Ali Ayyad'

Now he departs from us
And settles in Jaffa
And he knows it stone by stone.
Nothing resembles him
And songs
Imitate him,
Imitate his green rendezvous.

 Now he announces his form-
And the pines grow on a gallows.
Now he announces his story-
And fires grow on a lily.
Now he departs from us
To settle in Jaffa.

 And we are far away from him,
And Jaffa is suitcases forgotten at an airport,
And we are far away from him.
We have pictures in women's pockets,
And in the pages of newspapers.
We announce our story every day
To win a lock of wind, a kiss of fire.

 And we are far away from him,
Asking him to go to his death.
We write an eloquent communique about him,
And go our way to throw off our sorrows at pavement cafes
And we protest: We have no home in the city.
And we are far away from him,
We embrace his murder at the funeral,
We steal from his wound the cotton-wool to shine
The medals of patience and of waiting.

 Now he emerges from us
As the earth emerges from a rainy night
And the blood pours out of him
And the ink pours out of us.
And what shall we say to him? Does memory fall
On a dagger
When evening is far from Nazareth?
Now he is going to it
As bombs or an orange,
And he does not know the boundary between crimes
When they become rights
And between justice,
And he affirms nothing
And he refutes nothing.
Now he goes on and leaves us
So that we may sometimes object
Sometimes accept.
Now he passes on as a matyr
And he leaves us as refugees.

And he slept
And had not taken refuge in tents,
Had not taken refuge in harbours,
Hadn't talked,
Hadn't learnt,
Hadn't been a refugee.
It is the earth that is a refugee in his wounds
And he has brought it back.