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1977-1978

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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 />

30

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