Spring In The Holy Land Poem by Nero CaroZiv

The sparrows are flying in the holy land, and the desert winds are not still,
On the green grass now the nightingales are lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the desert now boils in the wakening land like a fire from the East;
Fresh fountains through stones past as it bubble and murmur; at the banks Biblical beasts

Oh ground parched and cracked like over baked burnt bread,
The greensward all wracked is, waiting for the rain bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And grasshopper twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops, mountains of old patina like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers that flow waters into the holy city burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground; liquid ancient gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees the holy Eternity there.


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