No hands may help here, 

No true heroes let near, 

No servants bringing peace, 

No healing caretaker arms, 

No sharing of food supply, 

No medicines and remedies,

No builders and craft works.

All have been turned away,

For only death gives offers.

But, I wonder:

Would they refuse a Pope on a boat,

Stowed with barrels of fish and grain,

For starving children of the holy land?

Would they stop a Cherished Rabbi,

Gathering the many goodhearted within,

From opening fences to offer assistance?

Or if a Grand Imam pilgrimed to its borders,

A caravan of cars laden with sheltering tents,

And of building material and crafting tools?

And if the Dali Lama flew by cargo aircraft,

Its belly brimming of boxed ripe fruits, nuts,

And healing cures, would they still refuse?

Or if a Revered Guru on a long railcar train,

Came hauling vegetables and clean clothing,

Would they block its track to prevent the way?

Who may enter this desolation and offer hands of compassion?

Who can halt this cruel concentration of death’s brutal ends?

Are there any blessed who may enter these holy lands?

Yet, was its long history not for all this world to share,

Temples, churches, mosques, synagogues and walls,

Its passing, wellspring, wisdom, prophets, and God?

For some prophesy destruction, and seek to create its horrific ending,

And some believe in love, lighting the pathways to our shared meaning.