Asheaf AboArafe
Mertz stood tall, the wind dancing through his paper decree:
“Israel has the right,” he said, “to guard its blooming tree—
By chopping down the orchard, root and leaf and bee.”
“Disarm Hamas, let hostages go, and make the future clear—
A Gaza free of those we fear, empty of what is dear,
A desert with no cloud to wander near.”
But when asked of selling swords, his brow grew sage and tight:
“The hour is dark; no blade shall leave our gate tonight—
At least, not one that dares to touch Gaza’s shifting light.”
Then came his German tear, polished to a shine:
“Give bread to the hungry—yet keep the lock aligned,
Let one gate open, and bolt a thousand in kind.”
And last, his counsel to the patient hand that schemes:
“Do not claim the West Bank now—
Like grapes, it must ripen before it fits your dreams.”
