Our dance is turned into mourning

But that is not the worst of it

Although the dancers fill our dreams

Running, hiding, sheltering

And the survivors promise

‘We shall dance again,’

We, who danced long ago,

Do not expect more dancing

There is always more mourning

And I am too old to dance.

Our cities sit solitary among the headlines

Of the BBC, CNN, Sky News, New York Times

Wall Street Journal and Washington Post

Our cities have none to comfort them

Except ourselves and Ha Maqom,

 Comforter of the mourners of Zion.

‘Turn us again,’ we say, ‘Renew our days,’

But all our days, even long ago

Were given up to mourning more than dancing

Still, turn us again and again.