When the Merkava doesn't scare you, For you know that even your youngest Child can easily sweep it off the ground, Like dust fallen off dirty chalky shoes; When you pity the misfits inside it, Thinking they were commanded by the Lord to crush the tiny naked pink doll, On their way to commit genocide; When you think of their dreadful fear, That they might come face to face, With men who pledged to avenge Hundreds of thousands of olive trees; They know they can't put up a fight, They know that even that heavy load Cannot shield them from the wrath Of a people claiming its stolen land; When you gave birth to caring men Who can raise you to the stars, Who can take you to the moon they Contemplate while breaking fast; When your roots are deeply entrenched Down deep this holy land that Has been for seventy-six years Torn apart by this endless crusade; You wake up among the rubble, As happy though as a cheerful child, And bake, under the gleaming sun, Cakes and cookies for the Eid.
