are without morals, unscrupulously stern,
and stern the victories, and the liberations
into the war-torn countryside; —
there, gardens that one used to want
wear deep, drenched green, and seem to pant
with sadness; the hanging mosses,
wet on the wall, bear
the sorrow one knows,
and all our losses:
come to that garden, radiant with rain,
and learn a sustenance born out of pain,
a sorrow so lush, it takes one in
and makes a deep green grief where once was sin.
who thinks life’s lessons are so cruel
they need a moral, is a fool:
the victories after a battle is won or lost
cost most, are most worth the cost.