The Poem Is In My Hands, And

The Metaphor For Palestine Is Stronger Than The Palestine Of Reality.

We Suffer From An Incurable Malady: Hope.

Standing Here, Staying Here, Permanent Here, Eternal Here, And We Have One Goal, One, One: To Be.

I See What I Want Of Love... I See Horses Making The Meadow Dance, Fifty Guitars Sighing, And A Swarm Of Bees Suckling The Wild Berries, And I Close My Eyes Until I See Our Shadow Behind This Dispossessed Place... I See What I Want Of People: Their Desire To Long For Anything, Their Lateness In Getting To Work And Their Hurry To Return To Their Folk... And Their Need To Say: Good Morning.

The Poem Is Neither Here Nor There, And With A Girl's Breast It Can Illuminate The Nights. With The Glow Of An Apple It Fills Two Bodies With Light And With A Gardenia's Breath It Can Revive A Homeland!