There they go, marching, winding,
Imposing their fortresses on the hilltops,
Grey, cold concrete, relentless and heartless,
barring the land from its people,
so its lies unused, forlorn olive trees uncared for.
Some of it contaminated by waste and excrement
released by Israeli colonists.
At times they are painted, these walls,
with angry, beautiful, peaceful images
recalling the world’s revolutionaries;
the list is too long.
On the other side, they tell me,
These separation walls are prettified
by plants, young trees, coffee bars,
to fool the settlers they are necessary.
There they are, private, tarmacked, protected,
So those who have stolen this Palestinian land
Can reach their citadels with ease and army protection.
Here we have rough, dusty roads,
where we and vehicles slither and slide in the rain,
and clamber over the rubble of demolished Palestinian homes.
I want to see homes for the living,
Not the dead eyes of half-demolished, half-built
I do not mind this rocky, ancient landscape.
It is part of living nature, red, striated and rich,
to be used and gently enjoyed by its people.
I do not want to clean its red dust from my shoes