You wait to be seated for dinner with madmen
who sit at your table (they were not invited)
when you call a prophet to feast with a wine cup
and speak of the day when the sirens are calling
for glory, not warning our extermination
is coming to raid us and rain down in fire
and summon a choir that’s singing our story
They’ll call down the ages of small towns abandoned
by ghosts who are waiting to come to Jerusalem.
Here they are standing. They stare at the missiles.
They see me in shelter. Explosions are ringing
and I hear them singing. I hear them singing.
Come to Jerusalem. See David slinging
a stone at a giant, that mighty Goliath
and when he falls down, oh what is that sound
that carries him over the valley surrounding
a city that stands upon our holy ground?
P
POEM: Iranian Night
