I too love jeans and jazz and Treasure Island
   and Long John Silver's parrot and the terraces of New Orleans.

I love Mark Twain and the Mississippi steamboats and Abraham Lincoln's dogs.
I love the fields of wheat and corn and the smell of Virginia tobacco.
   But I am not American.
Is that enough for the Phantom pilot to turn me back to the Stone Age?

I need neither oil, nor America herself, neither the elephant nor the donkey.
Leave me, pilot, leave my house roofed with palm fronds and this wooden bridge.
I need neither your Golden Gate nor your skyscrapers.
   I need the village not New York.

Why did you come to me from your Nevada desert, soldier armed to the teeth?
Why did you come all the way to distant Basra where fish used to swim by our doorsteps?
   Pigs do not forage here.
I only have these water buffaloes lazily chewing on water lilies.

Leave me alone soldier.
Leave me my floating cane hut and my fishing spear.
Leave me my migrating birds and the green plumes.
Take your roaring iron birds and your Tomahawk missiles.

I am not your foe.
I am the one who wades up to the knees in rice paddies.
   Leave me to my curse.
I do not need your day of doom  .  .  .
From America, America by Saadi Youssef (translated by Khaled Mattawa)    
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