Ramah

We were born mothers; we sleep in our children's beds.
Our beating blood comes from that love of children,
And all our talk is about our children.

Deep in the night when darkness grips the sky,
A razored lighted ripped into the eyes of children,
We gathered them close, hidden beneath our coats.

Our line was long: we waded with heavy legs,
Into that blackness that tried to swallow children.
The clutter of boots made hearing grow dull.

Shadowed hands grappled us with blind fury:
We huddled, muffling the cries of children.
Those dampened sounds belong to young and old.

Those grinning faces found that precious cargo,
Ripped from our arms those shrouded children.
They took them somewhere even God doesn't know.

Fetid flames grew fat and scorching heat swelled the air.
We covered our ears from those meek wails of children.
Smoke thickened the world into desperate puddles.

Yet a glistening wind raised up our eyes.
Delicate clouds revealed the smiles of children.
The feathered light rested their soft faces.

Oh God who loves us, join us with Mother Rachael.
She won't be comforted; she longs for her children.
When we soon meet, let us tell her of our children.




Based in part on Ted Hughes's "A Dream of Horses".