19 Sep Rabin’s assassination
As the noonday brightness fades, a soft glow follows evening shade.
City of light on a distant hill, your transparent gold flickering still–
Jerusalem, when shall I return? A nation’s love born in eternity, of ancient
memory and soulful quest—only now being shamed by a blood-stained breast.
His peaceful refrain no more—Jerusalem, I thought I knew you. Whether a
place of national appeal or, beyond time or space, a mystic ideal– Your light,
however dim, still steadies the course, ably reflecting a common source,
Jerusalem, when shall I return?