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Yes, I remember Fasayil
the dirt-track’s hanging gate
a shanty of tents and mud-brick shacks
annexed to the Jewish State.
Melon fields of blinding light
and sentried ranks of palms,
Tomer’s barbed-wire cash-crops,
Fasayil’s destitute farms.
The drudgery of those melon fields
was relieved by the company
of my smiling Bedouin workmates
exiled and refugee.
Yet I refused an invitation
to dine with them in their homes,
not because the Arabs will eat your heart
and make bread with your bones,
but because a Brooklyn accent
said this is the West Bank guys
and those that eat with Arabs
are terrorists and spies.
Shabbat shalom on Tomer
grilled steaks and Maccabi beer
‘Dance Rock’ and the Kids from Fame,
Sharon and Shamir.
Yes, I remember Fasayil
where I learned good men are meek,
and collude with power against the poor,
the dispossessed and weak.