A chosen we, who gathered in Israel and Palestine,
now a forgotten moment in time. Some called them
an apple, each one a seed—she Muslim, he Sufi, she
Christian or Buddhist, religious or nonreligious Jew.
One with friends in Jordan or family in Haifa.
One remembers when she hated Jews. One lived
on a kibbutz, one loved a refugee.
Hand in hand they climbed to a holy place.
Some call it the Temple Mount, and others
Haram al-Sharif. When they asked, Wise One,
who am I? the answer was always the same:
You are tree. You are root.