By Randy Ai
I
sit at the hills of Jerusalem –
A
city united by its rooftops but divided by its people
A
place where the walls wail,
The
domes are made of gold,
And
the sepulchres house the resurrected
It
is a city of too many fantasies
But
not enough real estate.
A
city of treasure and blood
That
has changed hands
Like
the plaything of a skilled moneychanger
As
I drink my evening tea
And
eat my olives
I
can hear in the distance
The
lullaby of bombs bursting in air
A
new volley of missiles
Excite
the air raid sirens
While
men and women in uniform
Scramble
to take cover
The
night sky above the Old City
Becomes
a lightshow of firecrackers
Yet
I continue to dine undeterred
As
the soil beneath my feet is fertile
And
blessed by God
Jews,
Christians, and Muslims:
All
the children of Abraham
Have
planted flowers here.
And
in the ignorance of night
All
have raided the gardens of their neighbours
