There will come a day when we’ll ask what was
In an Israeli backpack, whether it was the weight
Of ashes, a loaded rifle or the repeated hope of a place.
I don’t know what’s in a Palestinian backpack,
Surely the hope of a place too and if not a rifle,
A knife. Borgès says somewhere that what
Israel offered its founders was a new name for the
Struggle. Well, the gift keeps on giving, doesn’t it?
And it gives equally, and it gives plenty. I find
This ironic war to be the sole pencil God gave men
To draw boundaries. But right now, it is as if it did
Not matter where the country started and where it stopped,
Inhabitants are just walking about with large pieces
Of bagage attached to their backs. It is naive to claim
People would rather let go of their backpack,
Yet nobody carries hate over a long distance.
The first Marathon was after all as much
An act of desperation as of goodwill, or, in truth,
A deadly run from one to the other.
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