WHEN Mahmoud Darwish died, what did we remember? His poems? Or his fate, like that of Palestine: imprisoned, doing what prisoners and the jobless do—manufacturing hope?

Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the can non of time
Close to the gardens of broken shadows,
We do what prisoners do,
And what the jobless do:
We cultivate hope.

**

A country preparing for dawn. We grow less intelli gent
For we closely watch the hour of victo

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