On a roof in the Old City laundry hanging in the late afternoon sunlight. the white sheet of a woman who is my enemy, the towel of a man who is my enemy, to wipe off the sweat of his brow. In the sky of the Old City a kite At the other end of the string, a child i can't see because of the wall. We have put up many flags, they have put up many flags, to make us think that they're happy. To make them think that we're happy.

All night the army came up from Gilgal To get to the killing field, and that's all. In the ground, warf and woof, lay the dead. I want to die in My own bed. Like slits in a tank, their eyes were uncanny, I'm always the few and they are the many. I must answer. They can interrogate My head. But I want to die in My own bed. The sun stood still in Gibeon. Forever so, it's willing to illuminate those waging battle and killing. I may not see My wife when her blood is shed, But I want to die in My own bed. Samson, his strength in his long black hair, My hair they sheared when they made me a hero Perforce, and taught me to charge ahead. I want to die in My own bed. I saw you could live and furnish with grace Even a lion's den, if you've no other place. I don't even mind to die alone, to be dead, But I want to die in My own bed.

Yad Mordechai. Those who fell here still look out the windows like sick children who are not allowed outside to play. And on the hillside, the battle is reenacted for the benefit of hikers and tourists. Soldiers of thin sheet iron rise and fall and rise again. Sheet iron dead and a sheet iron life and the voices all—sheet iron. And the resurrection of the dead, sheet iron that clangs and clangs. And I said to myself: Everyone is attached to his own lament as to a parachute. Slowly he descends and slowly hovers until he touches the hard place.