The Israeli poets spoke only to themselves.

As june ripened like the peaches of Metula,
Picked by workers from Thailand
Over looking Syria and Lebanon,  
Shorter than ?the good fence?
I went to the poets' festival.

Two of my friends were reading
Their hip poetry
That was just political enough
To catch attention
Never too explicit to make any change.

As the sunset bled over the mountains,
All the great poets gossiped on the stairs
Using words most of the population
Has forgotten to television and occupation.  

Life was great, the cherries were abundant
And cheap
There was iced yellow pesiphlora to drink
And chicky was making laughter
Ripple up from the bottom of my spine
Before I could stop to think.

But the Israeli poets spoke only to themselves.

As if there weren't any people
And there wasn't any good fence
Or new wall.

The Israeli poets spoke only to themselves
As if they hung up their public
Words to dry,
Just when we needed them wet
With passion
To wash the people
Into the streets.