The Killers of the Fields

Nathan Alterman

1936

In ascetic silence, in stony skirts,
God’s handmaid falls on her face—
Flash of an empty night, a forlorn desert waste,
Shards of sunset upon the rocks.
This land. Trodden, just like this, by a wandering sadness,
Trailing in her thunders, calling her: “Where art thou?”
Speak to her, tell her of things that are other,
Tell her of fields that are…
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