A foaming sea before me,

High-peaked mountains.

Narrow footpath of thorns and snakes.

No way to cross.

O Mother of Zion,

Where are you?

I pour out my tears and sighs to you,

But loud waves crash

and you cannot hear my voice.  

“I am not dead enough, Mother.

I still feel.

Please take my soul.”

And then,

in this dirt, this soil,

a very sweet odor

smooth as gold --

her warmth, her breath.

“O daughter, hurry,” she said.

“I have given you wings.

Find them and fly home.

Fly over these mountains, this sea.

Find your wings

and fly home to me.”  

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