Classic Poem

His blood is on us
I do not exonerate the vipers of the oil wells
or pass light sentence on their petrodollars
for I pursue a black rose growing in my heart
while the evidence overwhelms me.

" Izziddin came laughing toward me
whipping out that old notebook of his
and proceeded to list his would-be killers.
He did not speak about his strange uncertain nights:
" Each day under a different roof!
Behind you creep plagues, fools and the cops! "
He laughs, " It's Paris, you know. "
Whispers, " This is half the price we pay. "
He never complained but suspicious
of men in strange suits on the streets
he'd suddenly quicken his steps
then just as suddenly slow down.

His blood is on us
His blood is on us
Here in the street where he drew his last breath
I saw (and do not exaggerate)
a gang of killers opposite a martyr's poster
their boss shows up, gun on his hip
his mind on that gun
and " Izziddin smiling his distant smile,
leaving it behind with me
on the street where they murdered him
I see him still
whipping out that notebook
writing down new names.
Am I watching mountains fall
or writing a poem?
He said goodbye and made a joke
" You probably won't see me again. "

His blood is on our hands
his blood is on our hands

He is our wretched land
If danger misses,
why, gravity pulls it back again to strike
He unmasked the tyrants with their lies
capitals deserted him
while he toted up their rulers:
" They kill you in defeat
they kill you in hollow victory
mornings and evenings they kill you
and buying and selling they kill you
do the wells bubble over? They kill you
They praise you? They kill you
but each morning tells again
the story of your resurrection
and the killers shiver
murmuring, " Why don't the refugees just die? "
Say, " They will not die! "
Tents and ... sunny nights
an axe ... and heads that will not bow
prisons ... they fight back.
Say, " The refugees will never die! "

You hear the news about the Palestinian?
Wherever he is they knife him
famine strikes him and flees
rumor hacks off an arm here, a leg there,
the media joyfully spread the news
the Palestinian rejects
he accepts his days as a sword
a hand that scatters the illusions of others
I testify " Endurance is his strength. "

He said, " Till final victory
I shall wear the sash of patience
till either we are disposed of, corraled and die
according to our guardians' whim,
or until we win!
This is the special realm
where our madness dwells. "

His blood is on our hands
his blood is on our hands

I saw a bomb walking on hindlegs
in the capitals of the ebbing Arab tide
Palestinian blood shall reverse that tide
I know the secrets of the proud capitals.

One judgment day we shall appear
arrayed in our Arab poverty
I will step forth to give witness
accusing the enemies within:
" You kill me nights
while days you toast my health
tell me how is one bullet different from another?
Both shatter my head "

I see him standing there
whipping out that notebook
adding new names

His blood is on us
his blood is on us

Will he be a memory?
No, for the embers of thought sputter and die in our hands
while the snow falls
A fragrance?
No, the oil smells stronger than perfume
a vision?
No, night's ink blots out what we have seen
... Yet " Izziddin remains " Izziddin
forever
if we can't reach him
he'll find a way to find us
this recording spirit
whose blood unites, inflames us
but if we do not rise up
to meet him worthily
then his blood is on us
his blood on us.