The Latroun Monastery


Here the hills
have known bloody battles.
The sun stood
still in Gibeon,
the moon halted
over this valley.

Vow-bound, you embroider the ancient
stillness with worship.

you took root in
this naked soil.
trellised by silence.

Your dark habits
Your austere habits
like stark winter vines.

It’s a difficult land
where the desert wind,
a close neighbor,
shrieks in your ear

“Go away, go away, go away!”
And the soil keeps demanding
to be watered with blood.

The silent praise of your wine.

Noneuclidean Cafe