The old man: Hebron. Al-Khalil. Soldiers and priests, guns and walls, books and bullets, all are life size weapons for the same old war. A child in one hand, a riffle in the other.
See me crying. Sing me a song. Make my gun warm, explode my house, shave my head, make my bed. 5 holy books. 5 stories of Moses. Explosives, helmet kippot, to resist is to exist.
Holy land, holy books, holy tanks, Dolly religion, black hat, black veil, black eye, bull’s eye. Wigs, veils, kiss the stone, sing the song, settlement, my frontier is my M16. Knit me a helmet, a bulletproof kippot, a child in one hand, a riffle in the other, a book as bread, a book as bed, trances, Hummers, Ray-bands, M16, chants, machine gun, break the bread, holy sins, everyone dead.
Meet me in paradise. Holy virgins up against a wall. No difference, one god, two countries, three nails, 6 bullets, 99 names, 273 letters, 3000 years… No clue. I die.
Let me rot. Let me bleed. Leave me here, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to meet god, I want to stay here where my trees are, where life should be good. Sex, women, bikinis, palm trees, forbidden cities, Sodom and HIV, let me be free.
Don’t put my head on the wall, at the end of your gun.
25 of February 1994. Barush Goldstein. Open fire during the prayer. 48 dead in total.
600 settlers in the heart of 120 000 Palestinian, like a tumor. A plague. Curfew, body search, target killing, occupation of homes, shit and garbage in bedrooms. Oppression. No even 1 % of the population. 2000 soldiers. Young. Scared. Bored. Confused.
Today, Barush Goldstein’s tomb is covered with flower. People come from everywhere in pilgrimage. He is a hero.
He is a hero. And they are the terrorists.
proof buses take children to brain tanks school and makes them soldiers
child in one hand, a riffle in the other.