Oct 10, 2019
Haazinu
Your summer ended that day alone on the mountain and I wanted to write you a poem or a song but I found one already written. If your words were the rain — drumming on dead pavement, feeding flowers in the hills — let mine be the dew.
It is so hard to remember. My mother will not tell me, my elders do not speak, we are lost with no gods and this is not your land.
A time of turns the sky is grey with promise. No lambs play in the mountains now and my memory may fail, but today — today I found your song.
