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Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Jerusalem – 15 August 2011

(I'm no Wm. Blake, for sure)

The Old City is,
Truly Old,
Paving stones polished shiny,
By millions of feet,
From ancient sandals
To the modern boot,
Everybody wants the place,
It seemes like everybody is here
Having it,
At least half are trying
To have
The Western Wall,
Touching it,
Bowing to it,
Praying at it,
Intently watching
Others pray at it,
Just looking at it,
I touched it myself,
Both hands,
It's just stone,
Feeling almost soft,
Smooth as silk,
From all the touching?
Tiny slips of hope,
Stuffed in every crevice,
Pilgrims hoping for
A miracle,
Or just hoping,
I didn't hope today,
Just touched,
It's a magical experience,
Whether you believe or not,
Where might have stood
Hiram Abiff,
The widow's son,
We will never know,
But somewhere,
Near our footsteps,
Walked giants,
There are no more giants,
We deconstruct our giants
Before they grow,
But we still have
Holy to so many,
Too many,
It seems,
A living myth,
The Old City,
Frozen in time and space,
For all to view,
And experience,
Surrounded by all
Who must touch her,
Who cannot bear to
Live away from her,
Who embrace her,
Consuming her oxygen,
Loving Jerusalem to death,
Perhaps they are Jerusalem's
Newest conquerors.

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