I would like to tell you I acted out of deep faith or that God sent me a dream to prophesy this helpless baby would grow up to deliver us all out of Egypt. But I can't.
Year after year Shifrah and I struggled to help mothers push newborns out of their bodies and into the world. Hour after hour we used the secret knowledge of our sacred calling, gentle words of encouragement, our own powerful hands. Oh the joy and triumph when a wet head finally crosses over, the transport in every mother's eyes, pain behind her now.
Besides, Jochebed was my neighbor: could I kill her son?
Hebrew cries were camel grunts to Pharaoh's ears so when we told him our women delivered their babies before we midwives could arrive - that Hebrew women, unlike Egyptian women, poured babies from their bodies like wine from a jug - that stubborn, distrustful, arrogant man naturally believed us.
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries, Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly, A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes Ebon in the hedges, fat With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers. I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me. They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks-- Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky. Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting. I do not think the sea will appear at all. The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within. I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies, Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen. The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven. One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea. From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me, Slapping its phantom laundry in my face. These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt. I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
What is to weep? To weep is to sow. What is to laugh? To laugh is to reap. Look at this man weeping as he goes. Why is he weeping? Because he is bearing in his arms the burden of the grain he is about to sow.
And now, see him coming back in joy. Why is he laughing? Because he bears in his arms the sheaves of the harvest. Laughter is the tangible harvest, plentitude. Tears are sowing; they are effort, risk, the seed exposed to drought and to rot, the ear of corn threatened by hail and storms.
Laughter is words, tears are silence…
It is not the harvest that is important; what is important is the sowing, the risk, the tears. Hope is not in laughter and plentitude. Hope is in tears, in the risk and in its silence.
Poor old lady, she swallowed a fly. I don't know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she'll die.
Poor old lady, she swallowed a spider. It squirmed and wriggled and turned inside her. She swallowed the spider to catch the fly. I don't know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she'll die.
Poor old lady, she swallowed a bird. How absurd! She swallowed a bird. She swallowed the bird to catch the spider, She swallowed the spider to catch the fly, I don't know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she'll die.
Poor old lady, she swallowed a cat. Thank of that! She swallowed a cat. She swallowed the cat to catch the bird. She swallowed the bird to catch the spider. She swallowed the spider to catch the fly, I don't know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she'll die.
Poor old lady, she swallowed a dog. She went the whole hog when she swallowed the dog. She swallowed the dog to catch the cat, She swallowed the cat to catch the bird, She swallowed the bird to catch the spider. She swallowed the spider to catch the fly, I don't know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she'll die.
Poor old lady, she swallowed a cow. I don't know how she swallowed a cow. She swallowed the cow to catch the dog, She swallowed the dog to catch the cat, She swallowed the cat to catch the bird, She swallowed the bird to catch the spider, She swallowed the spider to catch the fly, I don't know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she'll die.
Poor old lady, she swallowed a horse. She died, of course.
There are so many roots to the tree of anger that sometimes the branches shatter before they bear.
Sitting in Nedicks the women rally before they march discussing the problematic girls they hire to make them free. An almost white counterman passes a waiting brother to serve them first and the ladies neither notice nor reject the slighter pleasures of their slavery. But I who am bound by my mirror as well as my bed see causes in colour as well as sex
and sit here wondering which me will survive all these liberations.
Thanks for the Italian chestnuts—with their tough shells—the smooth chocolaty skin of them—thanks for the boiling water--
itself a miracle and a mystery-- thanks for the seasoned sauce pan and the old wooden spoon—and all
the neglected instruments in the drawer-- the garlic crusher—the bent paring knife-- the apple slicer that creates six
perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson-- thanks for the humming radio—thanks for the program on the radio
about the guy who was a cross-dresser-- but his wife forgave him—and he ended up almost dying from leukemia--
(and you could tell his wife loved him entirely—it was in her deliberate voice)-- thanks for the brined turkey--
the size of a big baby—thanks-- for the departed head of the turkey-- the present neck—the giblets
(whatever they are)—wrapped up as small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs-- thanks—thanks—thanks--for the candles
lit on the table—the dried twigs-- the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase-- thanks—for the faces--our faces—in this low light.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
Tragedy Samarity Hurtness and Prosperity Who should live Who should survive Who to help and who to guide
Disasters happen Tornadoes a flood Hurricane Tsunami Earthquakes and blood
Whatever it is Disasters do strike People need to know How to save others life
One moment you're rich While the other guy's poor But in an instant you're equal No one's less No one's more
Your perspective on things Becomes different from before You look through new eyes And it's clear what's at store
You must work with others As a team and as bros Nobody has any enemies or foes
Life is reality Your blindness is peeled You’re starting to feel now That everything is real
Desperate times call for desperate measures Everything you cherish Becomes desperate treasures You may lose yourself On the way to defend But stay true to yourself To your heart To your friend
Worst thing that happens Is you'll lose lots of things But what isn't lost is simplicity Your new outlook on the world And to the world What you bring.
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.
The birds have less to say for themselves In the wood-world’s torn despair Than now these numberless years the elves, Although they are no less there: All song of the woods is crushed like some Wild, easily shattered rose. Come, be my love in the wet woods; come, Where the boughs rain when it blows.
There is the gale to urge behind And bruit our singing down, And the shallow waters aflutter with wind From which to gather your gown. What matter if we go clear to the west, And come not through dry-shod? For wilding brooch shall wet your breast The rain-fresh goldenrod.
Oh, never this whelming east wind swells But it seems like the sea’s return To the ancient lands where it left the shells Before the age of the fern; And it seems like the time when after doubt Our love came back amain. Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.
I wanna be the leader I wanna be the leader Can I be the leader? Can I? I can? Promise? Promise? Yippee I'm the leader I'm the leader
OK what shall we do?
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