Through the dark forest, the high branch was my
radar. And I could walk alone till I
heard the echo and the water falling
from stone. And I could join the spring singing:
I will wash your feet coated with dust, flow
to those that thirst and make the fields grow.
Now we may judge outside the blinding flash
of war. The child shall sleep tonight. The gash
of battle heals with a smile on mother’s
face. Men shall spend evenings with their daughters.
Laughter, at the outskirts of town, taunts scarred lips
with a returning song. The orchard sips
the dew and stoops with fruit. And children pluck
apples with their stones. The hour has struck!