Next year in Jerusalem
     politicians will put down roots
     they can’t pull up
     and wither into roadside shrubs.

Next year in Jerusalem
          it will be the Egyptians’ turn
                     to run away and hide in the desert
          whilst the Israelis avert their eyes
               and count to twenty.

Next year in Jerusalem
     generals will keep finding
          sheep tangled in bushes
        whenever they attempt
                       to send in the troops.

Next year in Jerusalem
    an old man with a large beard
       will walk backwards through a hall of mirrors,
             chanting,
          dressed only in fig leaves.

Next year in Jerusalem
      there will be no guns,
no bombs, no blood-blind eye-for-an-eyes –
only doves
  pecking hard at olive branches
               and rainbows lurking on street corners
                                      touting hope.

© Adam Horovitz