Walked the streets of the Old City
before the tourists, when the shopkeepers
were unlocking, wicked sons
swept the cobblestone walks, rugs
and Bedouin dresses were dragged out
for display, special deals, half-price,
quarter price, anything to mark the first
sale of the day, an omen of good fortune.
August heat dried skin,
I was in no danger of being flayed
like the kid hanging at the butcher,
available for two zuzim
or the modern equivalent,
flies swarmed; I was not
in the market to buy,
but to travel in time.
Jesus walked these streets,
even before he dragged the cross
from station to station.
I saw no carpentry shops
but a lot of construction,
some wood carvings sold
by an Arab from Chicago
in his shop near the end
of the agony. The stones
of this city glitter in the sun,
they are covered with centuries
of blood, footsteps of soldiers
and innocents worn in the stone.
Who can bear this heat?
Tall priests, bearded, in black cassocks
and high hats; African nuns
dressed in white, filled with devotion;
small dark boys, instead of herding goats,
sell me ballpoint pens, dance around
on bare feet, skipping as the stones
burned their soles.
With the flash of a nightingale,
I am in a quiet square,
where in cafes men gather
to drink coffee and play a game
with markers of antiquity.
Here cool has endured for centuries,
shade protects the spirit and
shelters medieval calm,
all else is held behind a veil.
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