Here, at the centre of a new Empire,
The veins of my breasts have run dry,
For the last time. 
There is no tomorrow, only today;
Broken vases and fingernails wet with blood,
The ghosts of candles and soup ladles;
And another notice slipped under the door.

Is it possible that this will endure?
When we look out past the barricades into the city,
We see a sky painted in cruel greys,
We see the tyranny of Man set in concrete,
And we dream of Israel.
Our own walls are pierced with small kindnesses,
And I tell David:
Discard everything,
But do not forget your mother’s smile.

History has been condensed:
Forty hundred years of suffering  
In my baby’s eyes.

I can tell him stories
Of prickly rabbits and their wiles,
A story of my own youth
(though my milk is almost gone).
I put him into the tale:
‘Brer rabbit, my friend,
One day I will meet you,
In America.’

But how can I save him?
My own lips are at my breast,
Sucking at nothing but yellow skin.
We are in decay.
Outside, the old ones die
And are taken in wooden carts
Through the snow.

The last notice:
Another cut in rations;
We are too tired to cry.

Go - I tell him, in a whisper,
Relieved that there is no more doubt.
I will throw him to the mercy of the world,
And he will float amongst the reeds,
Right into the mouth of the enemy
And out the other side.

‘And when you see him, my son,
You too can say:
I was born and bred
In a briar patch.’

Is there a reason,
The ox unyoked from his plough
Walks the same furrow?