* * *

  We are the children calling to their Mother
not knowing in this hour if she is the same
and will answer to the name we call her,
or if shot through with flames and metal
her limbs called Sicily, Flanders,
Normandy, Campagna, are all ablaze.

  A handful or two of grass and air
is enough for prayer and compassion.
Put away the loaf, the wine, the fruit,
until the day of rejoicing and dancing
and arms wildly waving branches.
On this night, no table
bright with Falernian wine and poppies;
and no weeping; and no sleep.

--Gabriela Mistral
translated by Ursula K. Le Guin