We are captives of what we love, what we desire, and what we are — Mahmoud Darwish, Palestinian Poet

 An old olive oil press rusting 
 at the bottom of a sandy garden
 in his occupied territory.
 A man lying prostrate,
 face down, on the sandy soil.

Not dead but murmuring
about a weight, a burden, something
lifted.
I could not hear clearly,
what with all the muffled explosions
 and such desecrations by the American
settlers.

 This man, this old man, he screamed out:
 ‘NOT AS I WILL, BUT AS YOU WILL, FATHER!’.
 But there was no other man there, no father, nothing.
 Was this man drunk? He was a Muslim.
 So, no, I do not think so.

But he may have drunk some wine
 sometime, not long ago,
 during a pause in the battle: 
 hearing the cock crow,
 three times.

 Faraway strange unlit things
 arise at sunset, not sunrise.
 Black skies.
 The roosters had been eaten, 
 long ago
 what with the siege and the starvation and whatnot.

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