Not like the mild-eyed Mother at the shore,
Nor of the gilded voice that was revealed;
I turn from gates that bless what’s yet concealed
And bow not to Colossi named before,
In covenant I heed tzedek’s demand:
That justice cannot mend what is unhealed,
And settlers raised in claim of right shall yield
To face what claims yet linger on this land.
What castles in this air-bridged dream must fall,
That truth greet weary folk who’ve borders crossed?
If refuge be a holy, urgent call,
Then let my refuge reckon with its cost:
With Indigeneity erased in thrall,
I dare ask what we owe for what’s been lost!
This poem was generated in Ritualwell’s “Sacred Words for a Fragile Democracy: A Jewish Creative Writing Lab,” July 2026
