It was so close—
the line between dust and a flag,
between wandering and anchoring.
The Jews—
those who had the luck
to be handed their own country,
to ink their names on the earth.
I don’t know
who signed the deed,
who drew the borders,
but you—
you are the lucky ones.
Some of us still walk
with no key in our pockets,
only the weight of a home
that exists in memory alone.