“And nobody asked where to
Whoever went first fell
You needed a lot of luck
On the ammunition hill”
The Ammunition Hill
Rusting iron tendons strain out
of the crumbling, bullet ridden concrete
and down the slope high thorns and barbed wire.
From the entrance of a dark bunker in the deserted trenches
I see through the firing slits little red buses
moving to and fro
and the houses of Jerusalem standing around in a large circle.
The mountain can always erupt again
spitting sulphur and flames.
Through a thin blue curtain hanging in the heat of the day
the battle picture is frozen, blurring in the distance
the sounds of war are weakening,
and only the footsteps of the tourists
a baby falling asleep in the pram