Jerusalem
. . . and so the tradition goes that in 70 AD Titus leveled the wood
surrounding Mount Moriah to burn against the limestone Old City walls,
and Gethsemane’s olives were chopped to aid the conquer of God’s city.
Olive roots never die
Though the thick, gnarled boughs
That cradled the sigh of anointed misery were roused
To siege the city.
Steep Old Walls, castle-cut
And stained with aged blood
And centuries, fought. But the olive-oiled fire exploded
The rock for Titus.
The West grafted itself
In the Gentile way
To roots of True wealth, as battles raged dirty with decay
And dark lamb blood spilled
Old, aching, violent Mount
Seized and long missing
The Man of account who really knew it, walked lamenting
Peace salted by tears.
Peace that will never come
Under its high Arches
‘Til Armageddon through the stone-blocked Eastern Gate marches
A new Jerusalem.
Until then, children, two
To a camel, ride
Barefoot and hoping, down cobbled streets mankind claims, defiles,
Selling olive sprigs
For shekels, mere branches
Gain them a living.
Sprigs snapped from new growth whose ancient roots felt Christ’s wise weeping.
The tree Titus chopped.
It grew back reminding
Life after water-washed
Transgressions, brought in a dove’s rainbowed beak, warning the cost
Of future of fire.
Olive roots never die.
But grow back wizened
And gnarled with life, living for the Eastern Gate opened
Fighting souls spring forth