Poem for early August

A Philistine Cemetery Discovered in Ashkelon

I knew one day they would find me here in Ashkelon,

Where I was buried almost three thousand years ago,

And I am not ashamed to be seen here, now in my bones,

All other features missing with the passing time, and so

Let them say what they will about my people, Philistines,

That we were not all what they thought when they used

Our name to mock and scorn a nation without art or sense

Of beauty; we weren’t brutes devoid of culture,

And we had no dark propensity to evil crafts.

Nor was it even our fault that others came and found us foreign.

There had been a promise and they believed, but none

Of this was known to us when they swept in out of the South

And attacked our cities and our temples.  In truth,

We could have fought together against the real enemies,

If only we both had the patience to listen to the wind.

But history already had decided otherwise, the earth

Could not be shared, no more than the voices that arose

Out of the depths in the places where we both lay down to dream.

If only I could express myself in such a way

That both our ancestors could hear, or our descendants,

I would feel my death and silence over centuries

Had not been in vain.  Nebuchadnezzar gave false

Prophecies, established wrongful boundaries,

And finally covered over all our arts and wishes.

If necessary, I can wait another three thousand years,

Now that my silence has been recognized, my bones exposed,

For that is the meaning of memory, images on screen.