When first we met in Nineteen eighty-eight
Outside the P.M.’s house in Balfour Street
Along with other folk to demonstrate
Because the P.L.O. he would not greet,
I knew at once from Yokhanan’s shy smile,
Which spiced his earnest, sage and witty saws,
He was a man without a trace of guile:
A Jew that truly kept his people’s laws.
When later we would meet by happy chance
In some secluded bookshop, street, or garth,
The words he spoke would always help advance
My often sluggish progress on life’s path.
To me it’s no coincidence he died
With fellow aids of Justice at his side.
16 June 1999