And without it being explained to them how<\/p>\n
As if they knew it from generations before, from birth,<\/p>\n
They shrank themselves into a closet and shrank their breath and waited<\/p>\n
And no one came.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And between their fingers like a rosary<\/p>\n
They dissolved the promise until it became<\/p>\n
Apathetic ashes burning in their throats<\/p>\n
And no one came.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And they tossed one by one their innocent treasures<\/p>\n
Like someone who throws the weight out of a boat<\/p>\n
And they sank into a dense and determined orphanhood<\/p>\n
And no one came.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And for a moment they wondered if the fault was theirs<\/p>\n
If they had failed to solve the terrible riddle<\/p>\n
But they knew, in a moment they will be held by arms of solace<\/p>\n
And no one came.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And they caressed the children with hands drenched in blood<\/p>\n
While around them the walls were melting till the very last<\/p>\n
And a crack appeared from sea to sea<\/p>\n
And the world ran out of angels<\/p>\n
And darkness came down<\/p>\n
Blacker than any other darkness<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And an hour passed and then another hour and another hour and another hour
\nAnd another and another and then another hour and another and then another hour and no one
\ncame.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
*"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.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n