Nativity

for the Kurds, bombarded by Saddam Hussein

I bared my tired breast
To give some milk
Among silent stones
And barren hills,
To a weeping, a sick and hungry child,
Among the curses and cries
That swell the air.
But she died in my arms.
Her eyes no longer smiled
Her voice went dry
And a bitter wind blew from the mountain-ice
Down onto the multitudes in flight.
And I heard myself singing,
But in a strange voice,

O eyes that were witness to the wound
That bled to the ground,
O earth, happy to receive our blood,
O joy, born of sorrow and of the word,
When will we emerge out of the darkness?

April 1991