The stones of the West Bank

Stones darken.
The sun gets weaker.
We are depraved of our dreams
and see faces
emptied in trust.

Homeless families,
pressed against red soil.
The blasted house,
and the canvas outside,
that blinds rage.

Rifle bullets have pierced
our legs
and unvisible hearts.
The silence of peace
puts the gloaming
under the frail tension of the skin.

Some wonder
how stones can speak?
Others - how the blasted soil of the fields
will carry light?


Hans-Evert Renérius