Children of Jaffa
Children of Jaffa,
fruit of anger,
we think of you morning, noon and night.
Uprooted olives,
neglected groves,
next to the magnificent sea.
A strange man lives in your house.
He sings and sings
but not your songs.
He sings and plays
but not your games.
He plays games
but they signify death.
Children of Jaffa,
we think of you morning, noon and night.
Seething grief,
beggars and bread-sellers,
sparrows in the air.
Dead are the angels and blind your gods.
Thorns torment you,
your hands bleed,
your thoughts are fevered,
your gaze the heart of the sun.
Children of Jaffa,
we think of you morning, noon and night.
Poisonous despair,
a storm in the desert,
havoc wreaking,
catastrophe in time,
your sleep disturbed,
uncertain your future,
uprooted your fragrant gardens,
on the wings of angels,
lamenting,
laid low,
in slavery.
Dark your souls,
vainly you call out to the wilderness,
vainly you scream to the clouds.
Heaven shan’t grant relief,
other than death.
Death like rain engulfs you,
embraces you coldly
with the weight of lead.
Children of Jaffa
we think of you morning, noon and night.
The torment and the misery,
the singing of the sun,
the oil and the fire,
how you thirst for the wonderful water,
pure and salvation bringing,
divine sprits,
angel-like,
dressed in air,
restless souls,
blinding splendour,
in the barren waste.
Children of Jaffa
we think of you morning, noon and night.
Your tents and flapping flags,
your gaze directed towards the stars,
and your graves.
The locusts,
the clouds,
the yoke,
the high and the low tide.
Soulless riders,
bread soiled with blood.
Children of Jaffa
we think of you morning, noon and night.
Deprived of hope,
disease incurable,
the weight of the lonely desert,
the humiliation of the fallen temple,
the scattered shards,
bricks and stone covered with dust.
Children of Jaffa
we think of you morning, noon and night.