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
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.
Rosh Hashanah by Aharon Shabtai
(translated from the Hebrew by Peter Cole)
tomorrow we'll be celebrating the Children's Day in India. but do we even think of the world we are creating for them? and let's not blame 'others' for it... be it politicians, big businesses or terrorists or other countries or races or religions or anyone we don't like. it is 'we' who are the world today and what we do now will become the future as well. hatred won't heal, indifference won't help, doing something about it all will.
may the world be a better place to live for children, the next time their day arrives. *amen*