Jerusalem, 1999

Gray, dusty, patient pine tree witness. God’s sign-language on the hills around you, still undecipherable. Your perpetual rapings. Those who walked towards you from the ends of the earth in votive garments of faith and iron. Endless pilgrimage, blinding altar of visions. From the ends of the earth stone secrets, burning prophecies woven in a Babel of dreams. End of millennium. Warring bones. So many. Holy dust. Timeless hourglass. And a street named The Hope blue on white in three different languages. Your eternal crown of thorns and light, thorns and light, Queen.