country we all want to live in,
country of peace groves
full of lemon trees, country
where we let
our own blood
into the garden soil
to feed it, where we all sing
in our own tongues in the front yards
and kneel silently in the back yards
under the open sky, seeking
guidance or a little rain; country
yet to be founded,
already rich and storied,
abandoned again and again;
country, not nation, not state;
homeland, not seat of empire.
Country yet to be ours, country
we’ll have to define — a country we’ll all
agree to defend against the poisons
of borders, flags, anthems, suspicions.
When we come to that country
we’ll look into each other’s eyes
and we’ll know what to name it
without hearing a single campaign speech.
We’ll know how to run it
without a single task force.
We’ll know how to love it
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