I am not from this city

though I walk up the mountain

each morning with its children

to raise our voices in song

We return slowly and happily

our voices tired,

scared that our mothers

will never believe

we poured out our songs

at God's door

I am not from this city

but I am like those who escaped

carrying a bucket of water

and an old ax

to dig in the soft dirt of death

I am not from this city

but I move over it

like a passing moon

or a mourner following a bullet

in search of its resting place—

perhaps it will be in the heart of a man

not from this city...

I am not from this city

but whenever I feel thirsty,

I dig into its soil

to plant an olive

for the water waiting to arrive

in a wandering creek

The river is our mark

This is how cities know us:

We are part of her family

Yes, I'm not from this city

as passers-by

will acknowledge

They say

I know the way to their ovens

before I get hungry

My children tell their friends, too

and my wife, to her grief

And my friends who bring me

home each night

whisper to the driver,

“He is not from this city!”