In This Low Roofed Place

This field. A red tiled-roof slung low
stands like an unscabbed wound. If not for this devastation
the river would flow through the wadi. Further on
the road turns from the captive city. And further still,
nothing compares to your compiled smiles.
 
My soldiers sacrificed themselves on the sword
in order to try to remove from this world any sword of hatred.
Only you, my misery, this bloodied heart of night
that you gave without speaking—for what, you short-sighted one,
did you give your life?
For love?
 
Wild grass comes up on the cheek of the road
and we aren’t coming. A thick cloud haunts this winter sky
lit from a far away light—
removed…not a thing from this world
in this field far away from the front.

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Abba Kovner

Originally published in Rhino