Birds Are Drowsing

Leah Rudnitsky

ca. 1942

Birds are drowsing on the branches.
Sleep, my darling child.
At your cradle, in the field,
A stranger sits and sings.
Once you had another cradle
Woven out of joy.
And your mother, oh your mother
Will never more come by.
I saw your father fleeing
Under the rain of countless stones.
Over fields and over valleys
Flew his orphaned cry.

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