From the collection of poems with the same title written by Aharon Shabtai in 2003 after witnessing the murder by the IDF of the child Muhammad. Read the review from New Directions..

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The sniper who shot at Muhammad the child
Beneath his father’s arm
Wasn’t acting alone –
Someone else in uniform,
A junior cog in the wheel who was briefed
At a higher level,
Positioned him there on the roof,
A public servant,
A cantor
For the Days of Awe;
And someone else
Manufactured the ammunition,
And another had it distributed
Like bars of chocolate.
The tree doesn’t go green
When a single leaf unfurls,
Many wrinkled brows
Leaned over the plans.
History has known
Foreheads like these –
Technicians of slaughter,
Bastards in whose eyes
Morality is a pain in the ass.
But even cucumbers
Need dirt and a little dung.
The worm isn’t born of air;
A million words are required
To reconstruct the manner
In which public discourse itself
Is corrupted and turned into refuse –
That which within the body politic
Was created to preserve
The heart of justice.

But now
There isn’t time for any of that,
When right in front of the cameras,
Without any shame,
Grown men in uniforms
Are shooting into a helpless crowd.
From the back with their necks and behinds
They look like guys at the airgun range
By the screen at an amusement park,
Trying to win their girlfriends
A doll or a box of candy.
Atop a hill,
At the distance dictated
By the administrators’ handbook,
The prime minister looks on
With his company of advisers.
They gave down
Into the Vale of Tears,
Toward the horde which is scrambling
Like jackals and rabbits,
Grandchildren
And great-grandchildren of refugees
Who were stripped of their homes and fields,
Wells and towns,
And with an iron hand were driven
Into enclaves and ghettos,
Each one of these authorities
Sees to his part in the plan:
One’s in charge of liquidation,
Another of the daily harassment’
This one’s field is public relations,
That one’s collaboration;
This one deals with expulsion and fencing,
That one with the destruction of homes.
Because, when it comes down to it, we’re only speaking
Of a population of a certain size,
Which needs to be pounded and ground
Then shipped off as human powder.
The outrage itself has to be packaged
Like any piece of merchandise,
With all the clichés
Of corporate politics:
They’ll give it a name,
Then a format can be arranged
For staged negotiations,
With “breakthroughs” and “concessions,”
And moments of press-covered heightened tension,
Complete with a pr blitz full of talk:
For this purpose we have the spokesman,
The journalist and author as well,
The TV announcer and the professor,
A long lineup of Men of Letters,
All blowing into the Process’ trumpets -.
For the sniper who fired at the child
Is only a single stinking instrument
Within an enormous orchestra,
Which is conducted by the man who knows
More than anyone else
That long-term solutions can be found
For any and every problem,
When it’s no longer breathing.
The moment that man smiles,
The skin over skulls becomes transparent;
When hoarsely, he pronounces
The word “Peace” –
Mothers wake up trembling;
He knows that words
Are only the skins of potatoes
With which the stupid are to be stuffed –
And now, at long last,
He’ll roll up his sleeves
And get down to the work at which he excels,
And bring about a blood bath.