Aharon Shabtai

                        Rosh HaShanah

Even after the murder
of the child Muhammad on Rosh HaShanah,
the paper didn't go black.
In the same water in which the snipers
wash their uniforms,
I prepare my pasta,
and over it pour
olive oil in which I've browned
pine nuts,
which I cooked for two minutes with dried tomatoes,
crushed garlic, and a tablespoon of basil.
As I eat, the learned minister of foreign affairs
and public security
appears on the screen,
and when he's done
I write this poem.
For that's how it's always been–
the murderers murder,
the intellectuals make it palatable,
and the poet sings.

                        Hebrew; trans. Peter Cole

Aharon Shabtai, Hebrew, trans. Peter Cole, J'Accuse, New
Directions Publishing Corp., 2001.