I think of the deepest tragedies
   that I have experienced. That

have made me become the woman
that I am today. I think of Antigone,

   Joan of Arc, the war of art, years
   gone by. I think of death and life.
   Instinct and emptiness. In the bone

slums. You will find the winter-themed of
the soul there. Stray cats. Kitchen tables that
have a rustic feel to them. Jam and bread.

   Forget this place of weeping.
The preparation for a daughter to become a mother.

   The yield and harvest of fathers.
   The yellow star on coats.

The strange pale fire in Anne Frank's eyes.

   Jewish children in the fire of war.

In the fire of the concentration camps.
I weep for nightfall. All I can do now

Is look at it from a distance. Women
Covering themselves with the veil of

   justice. While men want freedom and I remember this.

That there is bitter relief to be
Found in the anguished wild.

When the final hour came, it
was a day of thunder, submission and falling.

That was the day the sun died.
That was the day the sun died.
That was the day the sun died.

And the bitter seed sung that all should
be free. That we should all be free and
hopeful. And forget the harvest of futility.