Two Jerusalems there are,
one above and one below;
double-named as double star,
one a celestial entrepôt,
while for the other nations fight,
a humble threshing floor before
selected as a temple site
where earthmen still to heaven soar.
Bejeweled with two diadems,
fabulous their finery,
both of these Jerusalems
beckon to us, binary,
the one on earth a mere sideshow
for that above it, though the lever
to raise the one that lies below
is heaven’s ultimate endeavor.
As double, double, was the toil
of dwarves in Snow White—there were seven!—
Jerusalem’s most holy soil,
of which just half is inside heaven,
makes many troubled people pray
to be its sole proprietors,
their sins not white as snow, but gray,
irreligious rebel rioters.
Inspired by a poem by Yehuda Amichai alluding to the Hebrew word for Jerusalem which implies that there are a pair of Jerusalems:
Why is Jerusalem always two, the one above, the one below,
and I want to be in the one in the middle,
without knocking my head above and injuring my foot below,
and why is Jerusalem a double word like hands and legs?
I only want to be in one Jerusalem
because I am only one, not two.
Punning bilingually, I would like—with humorous topicality—to point out that when Jews pray several times a day for God to rebuild Jerusalem, the word בונה, boneh, meaning “He builds,” in the phrase ירושלים בונה ברחםיו, boneh, He builds, Jerusalem with His mercy, implies that Jerusalem is destined to be a binary city.