Post by Datuk Seri Maharaja Dúryodhanã on Mar 28, 2014 17:27:31 GMT -8
Why must
The poor be dispossessed, even of their tears
If their homes are torn down
Or when the town you were born and raised in
Was taken away from you?
That this land, ripe with olives
Which your ancestors foiled invaders and heatstroke for
Must have its fertility taken away
To be consumed by a glut of sterile cement?
Their honour bleeds; their daughters starve ...
What can these people do to keep their rights? nothing.
And what have you done to give them back their rights -
That shibboleth of
enjoyment of Life and the pursuit of Happiness,
Wherever and whatever it be -
Which you guarantee for your own?
Nothing.
But now
See how the terror and despair
Of these heathens reached out
To your shores
And tore down your towers, tore your loved ones away
To join the eternal party in Hades
Sowing hatred in your cities
When they who worship God five times a day
Were overwhelmed with grief, hatred and murder,
Could you imagine it?
When others were filled with rage
And took your loved ones away from you
- in the exact, iniquitious manner
their brethren were taken away -
Could you imagine it?
These people you know little about...
Exiled and lost to your eyes, your friends, your news channels...
The heathen is a human, despite his language and appearance.
The heathen has dreams like you too.
Could you imagine it then?
The children of the pagan are the same as your children:
Must they taste your swords, merely because your own
Never came out to meet the blades of their fathers?
With blood, and missiles, and the accursed abominations
Of war and bloodshed
On your doorstep, on your mind, on your telly screens
Perhaps you can imagine it all -
Five thousand is nothing compared to generations lost
Bereft of state, freedom or bread.
So enough with your sob story
That their religion hates you -
Do not be so blind, dear persecutor
Or ignorant and disinterested, as you may be:
Once they raised their hands out to you,
With fear in their eyes and sorrow in their hearts;
You turned them a deaf ear.
Now, imagine:
What fear there must be in your eyes and what sorrows lie in your own hearts!
So think not highly of how many you lost,
or how bitter be
the vintage of your tear-flavoured spite
- you drink it but for one day every year.
For the heathens of Palestine, there is no escape
from sorrow, tears or hatred -
their own, your own, No reprieve from the gaoler's own -
even for a single day.
The poor be dispossessed, even of their tears
If their homes are torn down
Or when the town you were born and raised in
Was taken away from you?
That this land, ripe with olives
Which your ancestors foiled invaders and heatstroke for
Must have its fertility taken away
To be consumed by a glut of sterile cement?
Their honour bleeds; their daughters starve ...
What can these people do to keep their rights? nothing.
And what have you done to give them back their rights -
That shibboleth of
enjoyment of Life and the pursuit of Happiness,
Wherever and whatever it be -
Which you guarantee for your own?
Nothing.
But now
See how the terror and despair
Of these heathens reached out
To your shores
And tore down your towers, tore your loved ones away
To join the eternal party in Hades
Sowing hatred in your cities
When they who worship God five times a day
Were overwhelmed with grief, hatred and murder,
Could you imagine it?
When others were filled with rage
And took your loved ones away from you
- in the exact, iniquitious manner
their brethren were taken away -
Could you imagine it?
These people you know little about...
Exiled and lost to your eyes, your friends, your news channels...
The heathen is a human, despite his language and appearance.
The heathen has dreams like you too.
Could you imagine it then?
The children of the pagan are the same as your children:
Must they taste your swords, merely because your own
Never came out to meet the blades of their fathers?
With blood, and missiles, and the accursed abominations
Of war and bloodshed
On your doorstep, on your mind, on your telly screens
Perhaps you can imagine it all -
Five thousand is nothing compared to generations lost
Bereft of state, freedom or bread.
So enough with your sob story
That their religion hates you -
Do not be so blind, dear persecutor
Or ignorant and disinterested, as you may be:
Once they raised their hands out to you,
With fear in their eyes and sorrow in their hearts;
You turned them a deaf ear.
Now, imagine:
What fear there must be in your eyes and what sorrows lie in your own hearts!
So think not highly of how many you lost,
or how bitter be
the vintage of your tear-flavoured spite
- you drink it but for one day every year.
For the heathens of Palestine, there is no escape
from sorrow, tears or hatred -
their own, your own, No reprieve from the gaoler's own -
even for a single day.