You are captives of illusion,
experts in eluding truth, you party, drink wine,
pick anemone in spring.
Occasionally you are reminded that life is transient as grass,
that death lies in ambush among green meadows.
Though the wrath of the suicide bomber is daily at your door,
your children bask in your warmth,
and this old earth, this biblical earth
blooming with camouflaged memories, quivers
with gratitude, that such people as you