To ground, with
glass covers made with sand,
to reflections with eagles that soar
came a morn, eleven of the ninth month
distance horns of the coming war.
To ordinary people living with the glass,
no reflections that seem to pass
heroes all with a lost step, we wept
in disbelief at the sight and our fear crept
over the eagle that was wounded, we fret
no, in all the time left, we will never forget!!
Link to
Saul
Bernstein's art
