“I’m fed up with this seeming immortal
who looks like a leper
who as soon as he makes an appearance
is a guarantee of chaos in Palestine and Israel”

Dead, not dead, waiting to die
On the night the definitive news of Arafat’s death
Finally came through from Paris
I thought of an old friend
A few years earlier
On a private occasion
Discussing with me
Views and feelings about this political figure
And the opinions of this friend—
Were without standpoint
Without illumination
Without conscience
Without sympathy
Soulless
Faithless
Heatless
Without lungs
And are remembered by me over ten years later
Only because they were imbued by
A resonance aroused by
A true sense of reality
And the exceptional vibrancy of his language
(as a poet
isn’t this the sort of
language I seek)

The remains of Arafat
Are shipped to his homeland and interred
All I can do is
Dig out these words stockpiled in the brain
And bury them in a flowerpot on my sundeck