And without it being explained to them how
As if they knew it from generations before, from birth,
They shrank themselves into a closet and shrank their breath and waited
And no one came.
And between their fingers like a rosary
They dissolved the promise until it became
Apathetic ashes burning in their throats
And no one came.
And they tossed one by one their innocent treasures
Like someone who throws the weight out of a boat
And they sank into a dense and determined orphanhood
And no one came.
And for a moment they wondered if the fault was theirs
If they had failed to solve the terrible riddle
But they knew, in a moment they will be held by arms of solace
And no one came.
And they caressed the children with hands drenched in blood
While around them the walls were melting till the very last
And a crack appeared from sea to sea
And the world ran out of angels
And darkness came down
Blacker than any other darkness
And an hour passed and then another hour and another hour and another hour
And another and another and then another hour and another and then another hour and no one
came.
*"The Hours" was written after the October 7th attack, about the besieged people who waited for help and rescue, but in vain. The shock and grief that generated this poem continued afterwards as a reaction to the war, along with the hope for a peace treaty and an end to the bloodshed.