poem by Aharon Shabtai
Even after the murder
of the child Muhammad on Rosh HaShana
the paper didn't go black.
In the same water in which the snipers
wash their uniforms
I prepare my pasta,
and over it pour
olive oil in which I've browned
which I cooked for two minutes with dried tomatoes,
crushed garlic, and a tablespoon of basil.
As I eat, the learned minister of foreign afairs
and public security
appears on the screen,
and when he's done
I write this poem.
For that's how it's always been -
the murderers murder,
the intellectuals make it palatable,
and the poet sings.
translation by Peter Cole, from the Hebrew