By Louis Andropov
How many Palestinian dead
Lie buried under the anguised stones
Of the ruins in a ravaged land?
Sharon, Butcher of Jenin,
How many innocents have you killed
Amid the wreckage wet with blood?
In the ancient city of Jenin
Charred bodies lay motionless
On grey, broken limestone
Bathed in light from the enemy's white flares.
Everywhere the dead lie,
The heroic martyrs, the flower of youth
Who gave their lives
In the valleys of black smoke and gun fire.
No Quarter for their enemy,
Old women and men were used as shields
To break down the doors.
They shot the captured and wounded
In the back of their heads
As if the sons of David
Were camp guards at Dachau and Auschwitz.
In the littered alleyways
Of Jenin
Family memories are laid waste
Under the scorching sun,
On the street a Koran lay crushed
Like a defiled woman
Among burnt cinderblocks.
The edge of immortal light is here,
American tanks like toothless prostitutes
Desecrate the street of Al Awde …
The dank smell of the earth
Calls out for Resistance
Against the flag of the Star of David
Which hangs like a Swastika over the Motherland.
Fighters call out their morning prayers,
And the blood-soaked camps
Come alive again in the humid daylight
Among the valleys of mustard-colored rice fields.
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