The Death of Klinghoffer: Chorus of the Exiled Palestinians

My father's house was razed
In nineteen forty-eight
When the Israelis passed
Over our street.

The house was built of stone
With a courtyard inside
Where, on a hot day, one
Could sit in shade

Under a tree, and have
A glass of something cool.
Coolness rose like a wave
From our pure well.

No one was turned away.
The doorstep had worn down:
I see in my mind's eye
A crescent moon.

Of that house, not a wall
In which a bird might nest
Was left to stand. Israel
Laid all to waste.

Though we have paid to drink
Our water, and our wood
Is sold to us, we thank
The only God.

Let the supplanter look
Upon his work. Our faith
Will take the stones he broke
And break his teeth.