I saw you enter the city like a sandstorm.

Saw the way they looked at you, like children
at a snake, who can't decide,
before it disappears,
whether to run or laugh, 
or spike it with a shovel.

I caught the tear blown off your face
by the wind that chased you down 
from Olivet, the wind that blew the tear
from off your face 
and ran like fire through my hair,
and on to carry ships away
from yonder Jaffa's greedy pier.

You wept before the walls,
as if you knew waht horrors lay in wait,
beyond the center light,
as if you saw the armies roundabout the walls,
the children pierced with arrows,
and men turned wax in the evening.

Or as if you knew the robber wind
that dropped your tears into my hair
would be runoff,
and none be left to comfort you
the day they cut you from the wood 
they cut from me.