They came from far in leaky boats
That wind and canvas slowly led.
A dyer and a dyer’s son
Were all who met them, rest long gone.
Rebuild, restore, revive and plant
600 years of fruitful trees.
My roof is letting in the wet
And I owe last month’s mortgage yet.
I have no wings.
I’m anchored down.
O, make me light as ocean winds.
My feet are here. My heart is there,
Where weary spirits spring up new,
Rebuilt, restored, revived and strong
From ancient soil that’s ever-young.
Black smoke rose from the death-scorched land
Where skeletons were forced to march
In lines that led to murder rooms,
Where strangers seized a last embrace,
Were brothers in the chimney tops.
The few remaining traveled home,
Where none of them had ever been.
Our wife, the Land, was put-upon
By suitors keen to take our place,
Her brave sons silenced by brute strength.
The faithful land outlasts them all,
And now I hear her siren call.
O, give me wings to fly away.
O, make me light as light of day.
My hands and feet are tied too fast
To win free of this wooden mast.
It anchors me, but I still hear,
While others work with wax-filled ears.
To them the day precedes just night,
Which brings another day as bright
As that before, and then one more.
O, give me wings to fly away.
O, make me free as boundless waves.
My youthful hopes still fill my sight
Like dancing, flashing Northern Lights.
But they lie East, behind the dawn
In land I must set foot upon
To truly see and feel and know.
And where my heart is, there I’ll go.
Re-posting due to accidental omission of the opening in last post, which should be disregarded.
Unfortunately, the Greek on top of the title didn’t paste well, but it’s from Odyssey Book I, Lines 48-59
ALIYAH
Give me wings to fly away.
Make me light as air.
I’ll ride any eastward wind
That will blow me there,
Where I’ve pointed every prayer;
At my heart, Jerusalem.
Feed me fish from inland seas,
Fruit from valleys that are home
To my wandering, exiled soul.
Land of Israel, make me whole.
“I languish in the utmost West.
My heart, though, dwells in Eastern lands,”
The poet wrote in Moorish Spain,
And came to bow and kiss the dirt,
Where he was murdered, home at last.
I climb the subway stairs and shout
To rain-swept New York City streets
O, give me wings to fly away!
O, make me light as rootless air!
I languish on this sea-girt isle.
My heart, though, dwells in my own land.
They came from far in leaky boats
That wind and canvas slowly led.
A dyer and a dyer’s son
Were all who met them, rest long gone.
Rebuild, restore, revive and plant
600 years of fruitful trees.
My roof is letting in the wet
And I owe last month’s mortgage yet.
I have no wings.
I’m anchored down.
O, make me light as ocean winds.
My feet are here. My heart is there,
Where weary spirits spring up new,
Rebuilt, restored, revived and strong
From ancient soil that’s ever-young.
Black smoke rose from the death-scorched land
Where skeletons were forced to march
In lines that led to murder rooms,
Where strangers seized a last embrace,
Were brothers in the chimney tops.
The few remaining traveled home,
Where none of them had ever been.
Our wife, the Land, was put-upon
By suitors keen to take our place,
Her brave sons silenced by brute strength.
The faithful land outlasts them all,
And now I hear her siren call.
O, give me wings to fly away.
O, make me light as light of day.
My hands and feet are tied too fast
To win free of this wooden mast.
It anchors me, but I still hear,
While others work with wax-filled ears.
To them the day precedes just night,
Which brings another day as bright
As that before, and then one more.
O, give me wings to fly away.
O, make me free as boundless waves.
My youthful hopes still fill my sight
Like dancing, flashing Northern Lights.
But they lie East, behind the dawn
In land I must set foot upon
To truly see and feel and know.
And where my heart is, there I’ll go.