4

My song in itself's an answer,
Relief when in distress,
Grace when in the right.

My fellows love to turn the lie to truth,
To honour vanity, bringing contumely.
They do not know who sets apart a voice to answer.

If only they could wage their wars
Within, quietly, offering wounds
In trust to healing hands.

They itch to behold their signs of wealth—
Rose dawns, full grains, rich wines
The storehouse of my heart can't hold for bursting!

Fully drunk and full I wake,
Fuller than the fullest sleep:
The safety of a well-won war!


© Dan Goorevitch, 1998