We are ochim
at the edge of the desert;
it will come true.
Babylon, destroyed; only
silent down stirring grains of sand,
small jaws scavenging
moist corpses. It will be
for us
behold — the horror

this land, made anew.

Ploughshares melted,
swords melted,
only hands left
turning to
the bones of hands
and then to dust. But
in the tired
red-grey days before:
the outline of a garden
dreamed longingly
into the
scorched shapes of limbs and
faces turned to the heavens
in some kind of