738 Days
(Official State Department photo by Chuck Kennedy.)
738 Days – Hello, Goodbye and Peace
Written on October 13, 2025.
As the whole world watched, thrilled
Open arms have now been filled
But after two long years
And oh, so many tears
For the living and the dead
But what more lies ahead?
The hostages are back
But the remains still lack
The nightmare and the dream
Still a continuing team
It’s a good beginning
Is there a final inning?
The word that comes to my mind
A word for all humankind
Shalom in all its meanings
Beaming, seeming, streaming
Hello, goodbye and peace
Has war there finally ceased?
Hello to the returning twenty
How they suffered plenty!
Goodbye to those who died
Their memory we abide
Peace, hello, farewell
What does the future tell?
In 738 days
The world has changed in so many ways
One day can alter the world
With events and hatreds unfurled
Too many distorted facts
Too many horrific attacks
October 7th, 2023
Another day of infamy
Again, out of the blue
A day we’ll always rue
But this year, perhaps some hope
When we can sing a brand new trope
Read more by Ada Mark Strausberg.
738 Days
For 738 days
We waited and begged
Wishing the hostages home
The alive and dead
For 738 days
We prayed, said Tehillim (psalms)
Wishing for a peaceful ending
That could never happen
For 738 days
Our people and others
Suffered, starved, in pain
Not knowing their fate
For 738 days
The world condemned us
As colonists and racists
Accusing us of genocide
For 738 days
The media refused to see
That we were the victims
Just longing for peace
For 738 days
Antisemitism became the norm
On college campuses
In countries around the world
For 738 days
We held our breath
Just as we have been doing
For five thousand years
Read more by Eileen Creeger.
738 Days
Seven hundred thirty-eight days—
a number that should have meant
birthdays, sunsets, prayers of peace—
not shadows behind barbed silence.
Mothers pressed notes into Western Wall cracks,
each word a tremor of hope.
Children drew hearts on cardboard signs,
their crayons trembling with questions
too large for their hands.
The world turned seasons over—
almonds bloomed and fell,
candles burned through holiday wax,
and still the chairs stayed empty
at Sabbath tables waiting
for footsteps that never came.
In Tel Aviv, voices rose like psalms
through sirens,
while in Paris, New York, Buenos Aires—
Jews whispered the same names,
lit the same candles of hope,
as if prayer itself could tunnel
through hatred’s dark earth.
Each day marked another heartbeat
in a cage of fear,
another dawn where faith refused to die—
for even when mercy felt deaf,
we counted the days
like pearls on a broken string,
refusing to let the last one fall.
Seven hundred thirty-eight days—
and still we prayed,
for the living,
for the lost,
for the light to break open
the blackened sky.
And then—
on the seven hundred thirty-eighth sunrise,
the gates opened.
The captives stepped into light,
frail, trembling, alive.
The world exhaled at once—
tears turned to songs,
arms opened like wings,
and the word miracle
was whispered across the earth.
Seven hundred thirty-eight days—
and still we pray,
for healing,
for peace,
for the day no mother must count again.
Written by Artificial Intelligence.
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