When the Merkava doesn't scare you,
For you know that even your youngest
Child can easily sweep it off the ground,
Like dust fallen off dirty chalky shoes;

When you pity the misfits inside it,
Thinking they were commanded by the
Lord to crush the tiny naked pink doll,
On their way to commit genocide;

When you think of their dreadful fear,
That they might come face to face,
With men who pledged to avenge
Hundreds of thousands of olive trees;

They know they can't put up a fight,
They know that even that heavy load
Cannot shield them from the wrath
Of a people claiming its stolen land;

When you gave birth to caring men
Who can raise you to the stars,
Who can take you to the moon they

Contemplate while breaking fast;
When your roots are deeply entrenched
Down deep this holy land that
Has been for seventy-six years
Torn apart by this endless crusade;

You wake up among the rubble,
As happy though as a cheerful child,
And bake, under the gleaming sun,
Cakes and cookies for the Eid.