The Song of War

Six Poems from a Tel Aviv Shelter

Suburb of Tel Aviv, June 13. My grandmother’s house, hit by an Iranian missile. She survived. The home did not. Photo: MDA (Magen David Adom)

Over the past 24 hours here in Tel Aviv, I wrote these six poems. They came out of me in real time—between missile sirens, cancelled flights, and long hours in the shelter with my family.

Thank you to all the friends who’ve reached out and expressed concern. I’m okay, for now. But these are not easy days.

This isn’t a political statement or an analysis of the situation. I think it’s fairly obvious where I stand—and I may write something more direct soon. But for now, this is all I could write. This is the only form in which anything came out.

If you want to get a sense—an emotional sense—of what it’s like to be here right now, read on.

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I. Das Lied vom Krieg (The Song of War)

(Adagio. Schleppend)

It’s been almost two days
since the start of this war.
Things got serious.
An Iranian missile hit my grandma’s house.
My father said she was alright,
but her home was destroyed.
He asked if I could go and check on her.
I rushed to the scene.

What I saw there was apocalyptic.

Broken glass and fragments of window shutters littered the pavement.
Ambulances rushed in and out,
curious bystanders took pictures,
soldiers in Kevlar vests held the perimeter.

They wouldn’t let me in.

“Go home”, the soldier said,
“More missiles are coming.”

I headed back towards my car,
people started rushing indoors,
entering the underground shelters,
I started running.

My father called,
he announced that she’s in a hospital,
“Go home”, he said.

I got into the car.

Driving feels strange.
As if driving laws matter less.
I accidentally took a left turn at a roundabout.
Telegram channels frantically update me:
“New barrage of missiles is on its way from Iran. Go to a shelter.”

There I was, back in the shelter,
explosions in the air,
I lie down on the bed,
waiting,
is the next missile coming for me?

The night passed rather quickly.
The day, in a haze.

It was unbelievably boring.
People walked the streets aimlessly,
waiting for the next barrage.

All I am thinking about is my flight to Hamburg.
I’m to meet my dear in six days,
but it seems an impossibility.

They say the next attack might cause blackouts.
They say we might die.

My flight got cancelled.

The only relief comes in writing.
In music.
In Gustav.

The cowbells of the Sixth.
The world of the Third.
It’s all that I have left now.

Dear skyscrapers of Tel Aviv,
Is this the last time I am to see you?
Will you not be there the next time I look?
Will I not be there to see you?

If this is truly my end,
at least I know I unlocked life’s greatest gift.
And I did so just in time.

I love you,

Ewig.

II. Beep

(Trauermarsch. Sehr gemessen, ohne Ausdruck.)

Another notification,
and another one.
The news go on non-stop.
Maybe there should be a blackout,
I will finally have some silence...

If there were a blackout,
And if a missile were to hit my home…

Let me have my headphones,
let me lie under the rubble,
And have one final listen to Mahler's Tragic.

III. The Early Warning

(Andante. Ruhig, doch innerlich zerrissen.)

The IDF has introduced a new warning.
This new warning will warn us before the warning;
it shall ensure we will be prepared to be warned.
Warned by the fact that a ballistic missile from Iran is on its way.
Isn't that nice?

The question that comes to my mind,
what is worse,
wasting your last thirty minutes preparing to die,
or dying fully prepared?

Leave me at peace.
If I am to die,
so be it.

I don't need all this,
information.

Had I lived a life worth living?
Would I get an early warning about that?
Warning me
that I will die soon,
and I might as well make something of it?

What use is it?

It’s no use...
No, it's not.

IV. Looking Forward

(Allegro inquieto — Lento desolato)

We are all sitting here,
before the news,
awaiting to hear our verdict;
Is there a missile coming for us?

Experts analyse,
they provide all the scenarios,
the circumstances,
does it matter?
Does any of it matter?

Why don't you just shut up?

Friends chat, people ask
if I am well,
they say "be safe",
as if I control anything,
what do you care?

What does it matter to you, if I am safe or not?

They ask me how I have been…
they ask me questions about work:
Who cares about that?

Just leave me alone.
The issue is,
I am not to be left alone,
even in the event of death,
even if a missile directly hits the shelter,

I will die next to my mom and my grandma.

With the endless chatter,
the endless noise of the news,
of fear…

I'd rather drown alone
in an alpine lake.

V. They drive me mad

(Prestissimo. Nervös, wie eine tickende Uhr.)

I am stuck in a war,
with my mom and grandma,
we are to spend hours on end,
in the dead of the night,
anticipating missiles from Iran.

What is worse,
the missile or my mom?

Insofar as the missile doesn't kill me,
She's far more deadly.

VI. Matkot

(Allegro ordinario. Mit hellem, aber irrem Glanz.)

The summer heart is unfitting,
as if I am to wear my swimmers,
as if I am to lie on the white sand,
to overlook the Mediterranean horizon,
and hear the Matkot sounds.

Oh dear Matkot,
you would’ve been such wonderful music to my ears.

What kind of sounds am I to hear instead?
That horrendous beep…
The air raid sirens…
The sounds of hysteria,
The sounds of fear,
of death…

The smells…
The smell of ash,
of broken old concrete?

And the sights,
bearing witness to these sights…
Multi-story buildings reduced to rubble,
deaths of children.
Children who would’ve been on that beach,
On the same day,
instead of their screams of joy,
of them playing in the sand,
and the matkot above them all.

They are no more.

Let their deaths not be in vain,
Let the Jewish boy’s tears
be only of joy,
of life.

And so—

To life!
Am Israel Chai!

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