Now in the middle of my days I glean
this truth that has a flower's freshness:
life is gold and sweetness of wheat,
hate is brief and love immense.
Let us exchange for a smiling verse
that verse scored with blood and gall.
Heavenly violets open, and through the valley
the wind blows a honeyed breath.
Now I understand not only the man who prays;
now I understand the man who breaks into song,
Thirst is long-lasting and the hillside twisting;
but a lily can ensnare our gaze.
Our eyes grow heavy with weeping,
yet a brook can make us smile.
A skylark's song bursting heavenward
makes us forget it is hard to die.
There is nothing now that can pierce my flesh.
With love, all turmoil ceased.
The gaze of my mother still brings me peace.
I feel that God is putting me to sleep.
Writing From Other Cultural Perspectives Encourages Empathy and Understanding - In order to help readers imagine life in a different era or from different cultural perspectives, writers of historical fiction must do in-depth research...