In a landscape of chlorophyll sprinkled with yellow and red flowers,
neglected olive trees and bushes, my motorbike broke down,
my mobile was useless, no signal here and I had a long walk home.
If only I had a donkey, I could have continued to the hazy blue mountain
that has always eluded me, moving away from me when sought.
The beast and I could have reached the mountain, over and past it and
ended up in Palestine, old people are respected there; mind some
old men do not deserve accolade, like Henry Kissinger, a man of many
sins, but I would flame the downtrodden with the fire of freedom,
and not let them sink into the peace of slaves who have forgotten how to
dream. I would then give my donkey to another old man and travel to
Amman in Jordan and take a plane home, sit in my room and be glad
that my life has not been futile, and listened with ease as shadows of
assassins surrounded my home.