Even in escape, there’s no escape,

no opening of waters, no Promised Land,

no paradise, no freedom

if the Sinai that was crossed

so long ago is littered now with bones

crumbling in that sand

and broken hearts are screaming anguished cries

and tears from longing eyes

roll down cheeks

looking at the land no longer theirs.

Now, there is no grassy hill to sit on in the setting sun

feeling chosen while the "un-chosen" run

through burning streets—

fathers with their sons dying in their arms,

mothers weeping on their knees,

neighbors dashing from the doorways

as their homes explode.

And when I taste the bitter herb

my tongue is bitter with this shame

and I cannot look away and celebrate.

I cannot taste the wine

or the sweetness of the honey

when those in Palestine

cannot sip and taste with me

the joy of liberation.

Perhaps, a year will come

when I can click my glass and drink to freedom

and celebrate in song and prayer

at last, what we couldn’t share

for all these years.

Perhaps a time will come

when borders won’t exist

and walls come tumbling down

again like Jericho and no one lives

in shadows while others live in light--

until then, laughter cannot hide this sadness.