The Poor Man on a White Donkey
O Zionist, do you hear the call,
the drums of nations rise and roar,
the gathered crowds wail by the wall
for one who does not wage a war.
He rides through on a white donkey,
and carries not a Magnum gun.
The women knew him in the night,
He’s their bridegroom or a blessed son.
Rebbe Melech HaMoshiach Yehoshua —
not bellowed loud from throat or tongue,
but from the womb of silent dark
where broken souls are forged in song.
The sky grows dark. The drones descend,
the shells split open night and bone.
But he who walked through death’s own end
rides quiet — and you keeping schtum?
The wars are here. They will not cease,
some say he never went away.
He is moving through a broken peace:
is that Rebbe knocking your door today?
He stands before your very sight,
closer than your jugular vein.
Will you be silent through the night,
or recite his name and break your chain?