Two days ago in Rafi'ah,
nine Arabs were killed,
yesterday six
were killed in Hebron,
and today -- just two.
Last year
as we were marching
from Shenkin Street,
a man on a motorcycle
shouted toward us:
"Death to the Arabs!"
At the corner of Labor,
opposite the Bezalel Market,
next to Braun's
butcher shop,
and at the corner of Bograshov:
"Death to the Arabs!"
For a full year
this poem was lying
on the sidewalk
along King George Street,
and today
I lift it up and compose
its final line:
"Life to the Arabs!"

Even after the murder
of the child Muhammad on Rosh Hashanah,
the paper didn't go black.
In the same water in which the snipers
wash their uniforms,
I prepare my pasta,
and over it pour
olive oil in which I've browned
pine nuts,
which I cooked for two minutes with dried tomatoes,
crushed garlic, and a tablespoon of basil.
As I eat, the learned minister of foreign affairs
and public security
appears on the screen,
and when he's done
I write this poem.
For that's how it's always been --
the murderers murder,
the intellectuals make it palatable,
and the poet sings.