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Chosen, to be a living canvas, Blood stained, and tattered, Painted with earth shaking victories,
Hundala turned his back,- A Middle Eastern Banksy Who stood for peace And got the grave.   If only we could have seen his face.  
When a prick calls me a kike and a kid mistakes a rocket for a kite I need Israel.
By the rivers of Babylon, we sat down there, We wept there, When we remembered we have abandoned Zion. Why are you lying to yourself? You know that lies don't last forever. The truth needs to be told.
When I was a boy I crossed the sea My wrists rubbed raw by chains And the seabed was soft Beneath sore feet Oceans came down like rain And by the light of the waning moon
Do we not bleed too, or are we the only ones to blame for spilt blood? Are we not a land of many peoples and pasts, minorities and majorities, harmonious and chaotic?
To the land of wandering and stories that ancients told Leaving us to pondering The memories of travels old   To the land filled with dust Eroded from histories stone
Rockets, rockets To us so close they are
Listen now, youngest of us. On the edge of ruin, I am wiser And perhaps, you shall be as well.   A crimson silk carpet runs beneath The house, unmoving and unwavering.
They were brought down Down to the pits of the darkest spectrum Beyond a trace of relief, a glimmer of hope   They were menaced, chided, and turned Beaten, battered, and burned
In the world you live, there are villains, There are villains who call themselves heroes, they're given your rejection, attempting to eclipse the shining truth with deception,
    Raw land, ancient, sloping and wild, untouched, orange in the dying light, just rocks and sand.   Like the finger paintings of God, an animal song frozen into sand,
  The Jerusalem in my mind Is like the land of a dream The old city Full of mystery History And beauty   The Jerusalem in my mind Is a city in the clouds
1. Home. That is where the heart is. So I hear.   The footprints of my people Long lost on the winds of time.
Intolerance. A beauty that is unjust. When can the flame be dampened with the sweetness of your tit? Your honey bunches of oats. You’re racism, sexism, and you’re holy holy holy holy holy holy holy holy sacrilegious holiness.
I. There’s a club in Tel Aviv near the dolphinarium. I know almost nothing about it— except one thing— about a decade ago, twenty-one teenagers died, when a man I know even less about decided
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