Bethlehem

The words of my grandfather echo in my dream,
as the years keep his beads and town.
I see Bethlehem, all in dust, empty
a torn piece of newspaper lost in its narrow streets.
Where is everyone? Graffiti and stones.
Where is the real Bethlehem—the one my grandfather came from?
Handkerchiefs dry the pain from my hands. Olive trees and tears continue.
I walk until I reach an old Arab man dressed in a white robe.
Aren't you the man I saw in my grandfather's story?
He looks at me and leaves. I follow—ask him why he is going? He continues.
I stop, turn around, realize, he has left me secrets between his footsteps.