Gaza, January 18, 2009Norbert RuebsaatA word is a thing that we have against death.It is only a word:It is as simple as a feather.I hold it up:Here is the word, I say.My enemy holds his child against his bodyFor protection.He shoots: who falls?Name me not as your killer,Says the word.I am that which you haveAgainst death.NameThe silence of weapons,The sound that follows a gunshot:Who are you?Asks this silence.Describe your exact features.Describe the country you come from,The names its lips have re-Collected.Describe your worth.When you cannot speak,When silence holds you,When all of you achesLike a lost arm,When you curse your birth,And your mother, long dead,Has forgotten your skin, What is left of you?When you crouch in the spaceBehind your teeth,Give yourself a name.Urge forward,Dream it.A country that failed.Its inhabitants flee.Where they then were Is not.You are facing into a wind,Your thoughts inhabitPhases of youThat whip by.Turn, and you rememberAn equation, something Someone said. Once.No longer a miracle.The country that failedWalks away from its inhabitantsLike a seaman,And loneliness inventsNew rules.You are within earshot.for HC.