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Ah these mountains are old<br />
scarred by crumbling stone walls<br />
by centuries passed<br />
by men plowing stubborn soil<br />
between war cries<br />
and the birth of menchildren (their faces old, so old)<br />
the land is silent><br />
she shows no pride3 no disdain,<br />
she yields her power slowly<br />
she feels the weight of armies<br />
and fallen fruit<br />
rotting in the summer sun.<br />
the olive is twisted: bent gray gnarled<br />
by fierce winds<br />
by scorching sun<br />
by battle waged<br />
man against man against man<br />
by sipping of the fallen blood<br />
the land regains her strength<br />
the olive bears forth her fruit.<br />
judith mendelsohn<br />
all the beautiful images<br />
that i could paint here:<br />
the marvelous land<br />
with its<br />
quaint villages<br />
and their<br />
biblical peasants<br />
toiling donkeys<br />
dusty streets<br />
picturepostcardcharm.<br />
arab villages<br />
jut out in geometric confusion<br />
on slopes falling<br />
from ancient walls<br />
sunlight fails to clarify; define.<br />
mountains shimmer haughtily<br />
in the haze<br />
tauntingly eluding<br />
description.<br />
judith mendelsohn<br />
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