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
EN 
MK