But I'll barely sing
so that your pain not
impinge on your sleep;
Peace to you, mothers, wives,
the blood-drinking tyrant
will be dust in your
winnowing baskets.

I walk on the mountain
where approaching spring
puts scented herbs:

All of you who listen to me,
when dawn softens, I'll
come and wash your thresholds.

And my songs will stifle
time's ululations.