Olive Groves and Windchimes
On April seventh there'll be an anniversary.
Not one in which we celebrate with balloons or confetti...
Sweet cakes, songs, or garish parades.
It will be 6 serrated months since terrorists raped Mother Israel.
Sprayed the olive groves with her blood.
Six months since they raked a couple hundred innocents.
To cover yellow flanks-to prolong their fun.
Six months the innocents have spent underground.
Within the tunnels of cowards.
Nobody talks about them anymore.
One by one they're being dropped.
Like sparks from a broken tailpipe
While the media bunny hops away.
onto the ratings bonanza glade.
Their names and smiling faces have melted off our back pages.
Into Dali's clocks, into the final note of a broken windchime memory.
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