O those who pass between fleeting words
 Carry your names, and be gone
 Rid our time of your hours, and be gone
 Steal what you will from the blueness of the sea and the sand of memory
 Take what pictures you will, so that you understand
 That which you never will:
 How a stone from our land builds the ceiling of our sky.
 
 O those who pass between fleeting words
 From you the sword -- from us the blood
 From you steel and fire -- from us our flesh
 From you yet another tank -- from us stones
 From you tear gas -- from us rain
 Above us, as above you, are sky and air
 So take your share of our blood -- and be gone
 Go to a dancing party -- and be gone
 As for us, we have to water the martyrs’ flowers
 As for us, we have to live as we see fit.
 
 O those who pass between fleeting words
 As bitter dust, go where you wish, but
 Do not pass between us like flying insects
 For we have work to do in our land:
 We have wheat to grow which we water with our bodies’ dew
 We have that which does not please you here:
 Stones or partridges
 So take the past, if you wish, to the antiquities market
 And return the skeleton to the hoopoe, if you wish,
 On a clay platter
 We have that which does not please you: we have the future
 And we have things to do in our land.
 
 O those who pass between fleeting words
 Pile your illusions in a deserted pit, and be gone
 Return the hand of time to the law of the golden calf
 Or to the time of the revolver’s music!
 For we have that which does not please you here, so be gone
 And we have what you lack: a bleeding homeland of a bleeding people
 A homeland fit for oblivion or memory
 O those who pass between fleeting words
 It is time for you to be gone
 Live wherever you like, but do not live among us
 It is time for you to be gone
 Die wherever you like, but do not die among us
 For we have work to do in our land
 We have the past here
 We have the first cry of life
 We have the present, the present and the future
 We have this world here, and the hereafter
 So leave our country
 Our land, our sea
 Our wheat, our salt, our wounds
 Everything, and leave
 The memories of memory
 O those who pass between fleeting words!
 
 —Translation from the Jerusalem Post, April 2, 1988