After leaving Palestine,
he wanted to find a pineapple tree in these lands,
he imagined it densely-leafed
like what God had planted in Paradise.

He left his land behind
with hopes of a new one
but didn’t find what he thought he might.

In this poem, my grandfather
can gather pineapples from a treetop
because in a poem anything can grow,
imaginary trees,
fruit a thousand years old, even a native country.

Still, I must insist.
(Here what I’d like to take root once more
isn’t a tree, but the hope
that there’s a place
still brimming with pineapple trees).

Translated by Katherine M. Hedeen