You came to the burned village and
kneeling poured a handful
of burning ashes into
a linen scarf which you hid
by your heart.
A black falcon clawed at your heart.
Then you went home.
Your feet touched the rocks, the river, the grass.
A wild apple tree invited you into its shade.
White ears of rye caressed your hands.
And under your heart fluttered
a stranger to this earth still to be born, -
as you reached your home, on a high hill.

On a high hill,
you bowed to the East and to the West,
to the South and to the North,
you untied your linen scarf, -
a red lark soared into the sky.
While you went on with
the pulling of flax,
the baking of bread,
with putting your son to sleep.