Tsipi Sharoor
And then War
by Tsipi Sharoor
translated by Daniel Revach
As if no time had passed, a warning siren rips
the festive morning membrane. I stare through
bleary eyes, only to return to my sheets. A nightmare, no doubt.
And then a massacre.
And as if no time had passed, the years slip back
with the slashing thrusts of memory:
Six Day War. Yom Kippur War. First Lebanon War. Second Lebanon War.
And as I do when gripped by fear, I step out
into the street, in spite of the sirens, in spite
of the emptiness of a locked-up city. To bear witness.
And then war.
Blood, mass slaughter and soldiers – with duty and with courage. With death.
History is hurled back into a previous century.
The body in flames. The soul in a tempest.
Could it be? Here? In this land? The thunderous burst of missiles,
while the street goes about its day, empty. Pure like the morning,
too early to understand that it’s washed in children’s blood.
Seven wars. I beg there won’t be another. But the war
goes about its day. Goes on happening, unfolding
its red petals over the Gaza envelope, the North’s finger.
In all its echoes, as the enemy devours.
And will be devoured?
This is war.
Cruel as always. Cursed. The blood of babies offered to the earth.
And as if no time had passed, warning sirens rip one morning
after another, membranes long crumbled.
This is war! This is it!
