I hear the voice of my
mother.
She cries loudly from
the temple mount
Of the contentment of
stolen water.
Without looking up, I
listen, but through my tears
I have no words, no
rebuke, no comfort,
Only wisdom, always
dressed in black, sits with me.
Among the mountains I
hear the call
Of a silent spring,
hidden and blue
Under fir and spruce,
awaiting the summer
Toll of its feast and
unveiling.
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