In a dream, just four days
before Friday Day,
war planes troubled Gaza,
dropping bombs, firing rockets.

By Friday evening, I realized
it was not a dream. I looked,
but a voice whispered,
“It was fourteen months ago.
Yet no, 14 years have passed.”

The voice grew louder,
“This has been since 1948,
far before your birth.”

Am I a witness to all of that,
or is my mind trapped
in an inexplicable mess,
a confusion of fear, dream, memory,
news and rumor?

Skies are heavy with twilight haze and heat,
but I sense a morning of bright beams coming.

A bomb burst awakens me,
and I rush to the window.
The city and sky are black.
My cell phone lies dead.
The electricity is off.

This is my days and my nights,
while I read a book called
Heaven Is On Hold.