I'm buried in an overflowing tomb, suffocating under the lies made by heroes on the edge of madness finalizing their conquest of cleansing (but just one more)- one more village left, one more enemy to vanquish, one more WMD, one more mother to bereft;
The modern retelling of history casting long and politically correct shadows onto crusader temples, turn left and you'll find the Roman Colosseum, the ruins of the rampages and despicable (unspeakable) sacrifices, turn right and you'll find the wells and the tombs, the ancient names renamed after each conquest.
Past the stones piled up covering dishonorable women, the graves marking the casualties of tribal feuds, revenge killings;
Turn around and remember at the memorials of sons killed by rockets, drones, militants, terrorists, settlers/occupiers/commanders/chiefs/generals/presidents. The carnage of knives and bombs and guns, the us and them, the endless blame;
The weariness of cycles, of shellings, shelters beyond capacity, the funerals disrupted, the death on all sides erupted, fear corrosive, claiming, naming;
Who can break a narrative, create a new story that captures truth with beauty and never boasts or idealizes or blacklists as savages, but names, like the speaker for the dead, a deep knowing and telling, of what is and was and what will be, a new vision, a future, a city, a King.
