Good linens with a fork and knife. We dine
a ritual feast on plates with sour meat.
And next to our inheritance, the wine.
We drink down promises on every street.
Where is your mother’s voice? I heard her praying
as father sprinkled salt upon the bread.
What did He tell you, child of violent slaying?
What hidden being held you as you bled?
Who stood upon the table and damned the sages
crying that justice, justice we pursue?
Where is our birthright, country of the ages?
What trade has left us with our brother’s stew?
Under the empty chairs I see a spark
as trees of the field lay broken in the dark.
