By Nancy Zigler
214
O far far far far in the past; I wander in a land of barren
boughs: I wander in a land ofÂ
dry stones
How can I ever return, to the soft quiet seasons?
Night stay with us, stop sun, hold season, let the day not come
let the spring not come.
Can I look again at the day and its common things
We did not wish anything to happen.
We understood the private catastrophe,
Living and partly living;
The terror by night
The terror by day.
These acts marked a limit to our suffering.
Every horror had its definition,
every sorrow had a kind of end:
In life there is not time to grieve long.
But this, this is out of life, this is out of time.
It is not we alone