I won’t go back to the ashen hillswhere the shattered donkey died.A premature sacrifice,just another dead donkey.
I won’t go back to the echoing walls.A falcon streaks below,and above, the crows.
I won’t go back to the broken hills of Judea,and who shaped the ruined gardens,to drift among the earthly cyclamen clouds?
I know of those gardeners and their lovely gardens.
I won’t go back to the ghosts of Nabi Musa,or to the springs, descending with my heart,to the bitter, shrinking sea.