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Then came a war. I led my people
who never fought before
who never before witnessed ruthless killing
of hatred of greed
Blessed was our land
In the midst of our blessing
there was the curse, our fate
They came to our city
armed with mindless power. Warriors these were
who take who rob who kill who maim
without pity without remorse
Our brothers were slaughtered
our sisters enslaved, our temple destroyed
our children murdered, our city lay in ruins
I was brought down
from the high mountain once my home
once our sacred home
My blue garment
sky blue garment
torn into pieces disdained with mud
with dust they brought
the moon lost its shape
stars disappearing, my tears not yet dry
surrounded by euphoria
of hatred of hostility A whore they shout
A whore cry their women A witch they screech
Burn her they crave She was no wife
They throw mud at me
laughing aloud. She has no husband
They throw stones at me
laughing even louder. She was a priestess
A priestess? They cry in disbelief
She lived in a high place
A high place, they cry in rage
Oh, our war is holy. We burn witches
who knows no modesty. We burn whores
who boasts their wretched beauty
Make an example of her
Let her be a clear warning to everyone
whose hearts may conceal wicked desire
I looked up from my grief
to understand their rage. I see their eyes
full of hostility. In that hostility
I see fear
of those who cannot unite
except in their hatred. I saw then
I was there to die
for their fear their cowardice
their inability to face themselves
Then I saw eyes buried quietly
yet shining through, deep in thought
There I saw sadness, gentle compassion
eyes of my lost gardener, my gentle companion
It will be a long journey, her eyes spoke clearly
Remember my sister you have a friend
among your enemies, your persecutors
I close my eyes to meet my end
to meet my beginning
I was stoned and burnt
humiliated and degraded, my body scattered
my sacred tree cut down, my sacred stone removed
my spring dried, my fountain sealed
my garden in wilderness. Yet I am still here
in the highest mountain, without song without dance
waiting for my people
waiting for my gardener
waiting for my apple tree to blossom
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