Untitled. Needs title

I listen to the old songs.
When people ask me
Why did I leave America?
Where the streets are paved with gold
where I could be safely away
from Terrorism
hatred
bigotry
and this war
I look at and smile
and respond simply
"I listen to the old songs"
They look at me, confused
and I expound, saying
This is home. There is no place else
I couldv'e had all the riches
and splendor and
decadence
of the United States of Consumerism

I could've been the nice, Jewish Israeli boy
my mother always hoped--and pushed--me to be
I could have been a doctor, a lawyer,a CEO, a CFO
maybe, maybe even a politician
Hell, I could've been--I could've been President
of the United States
I could have been the leader of the free world!

But no, thats not me.
That life, is not for me
I listen to the old songs
I choose to live differently
among my people
Like they did in the early years

I choose to be strong and upright
and courageous
to pioneer and build the land--put simply
to make the desert bloom

You see, I am not just a typical diaspora Jew
no I am an Israeli, a kibbutznik
a Lion of Judah, a modern-day Jacob
I am the David Ben-Gurion and Moshe Dayan
of the 21st century
And I listen to the old songs
the songs of the pioneer days
when the people were all idealistic, strong and upright
and didnt try to be Americans
songs of before my time
Songs eloquent in their rhyme, meter and diction
and that make me believe that I was born in
the wrong generation

Songs that I wish I could write more of
new, old songs
replete with the energy and idealism
but I, lacking in eloquence, cannot write
those songs

"Jerusalem of Gold/of bronze and of light/I am your lute"
and some old army songs
replete with sad undertones
at the loss and rememberance of the fallen
likening them to broken strings of a harp
"and we must play on/still we play on"

And the older ones, our fathers and Grandfathers
recount their names
Dov
Ari
Yaniv
Omer
Rona
Asher
Moshe
Itai
And they know that we, their children, standing guard now
have not yet had those experience
but we will
But at least we know the words.
at least we know the words.
My dad sits next to me as we listen to the old songs
and he puts his arm around my shoulders
and says
"Achshav, ani yodea lama ha achi shelcha matai"
Now, I know why your brother died