This is the city of which we sang,
Of which we were encouraged to dream,
For which our hearts each missed a beat
As we thought of the mushroom clouds.
This is the city of many stories,
Including our own, quite modest one.
And, in memory, the people know our tongue,
A loose one but not without impact.
They fell in ones or twos,
And droves are buried here
Row on row, slope on slope
Beneath the land they fought upon.
You can rebuild, Jerusalem, And do -
On high, from a distance, I sit and drink
Above their prostrate heads,
Watching the model city
With growing fingers and singing cranes.
Yet it's not my prophet who dominates
But theirs, his time-eroded footsteps
Leaving no mark upon the stone
Except a Golden Crown and tiled facade.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem