Palm Grove

From the dry land in which, without our will, they had planted us, we pulled out — with teeth, with nails — our roots; and took on our shoulders the provisions of being, barefoot in the sands. And we went far, we went far from the land of the violences of dry soil, like the soil in which they planted mines and harvested wars. We went far from the brawling of the scorching winds, like the brawl of mortar shells. And we searched for a different land, not like a round table with a “yellowcake” and the gift of a bomb in the middle of the desert... We went far from the deception of the desert and in the measure of that going far we came near, body to body, alone with each other... Beside the clear brook of our eyes, amid our hot, living hearts, and we planted in each other’s being each other’s roots... This was the land, the only land in which our palm bore fruit: shining clusters of fresh dates in the desert...