Strophe I

I hold my father’s peace.
Looking past the window,
Out to the starry heavens,
Lie over the hills of Jerusalem
Where my mother stands over my father’s grave.

Sans ill-will, bereft of hate,
He went on a Thursday to Jerusalem
Just to buy a cake.

Was my mother’s birthday,
The soldiers sent her tears
As her husband walked back showing no fear.

Showing no fear,
As blood cascaded down.
Down his shoulders into pools,
Pools of soon to be forgotten evidence.

Antistrophe I

A bomb they thought he held,
A knife he carried instead.
A knife he slit them with,
Slashed them with his prayers and words of peace.

Drunk with blindness
They paid no heed,
As they proceeded to strip him.
And cut away…

Away at his dignity, they slashed,
Away at his pride, they ripped,
Away from his heart…they could not penetrate.

Holding firm, “Ya Lord, give me patience!” he pleaded.
And they moved away into the abyss of the coming night.

They went to find his grave.

Strophe II

Now embracing his wife, torn and tattered,
She wiped the image of blood from their eyes
And tried to smiled as he bashfully apologized,
For returning with only his life and nothing to eat.

Both of them then looked out,
Looked out to the starry heavens,

And over the hills of Jerusalem
A shot fired from my father’s grave
And took my father in exchange.

As my mother mourns over his burial,
I see that they took his life.

But he left his peace.