poem by Mahmud Darwish
if you are not rain, my love
Be tree
Sated with fertility, be tree
If you are not tree, my love
Be stone
Saturated with humidity, be stone
If you are not stone, my love
Be moon
In the dream of the beloved woman, be moon
[So spoke a woman to her son at his funeral]
There are in our existence spots of time, / That with distinct pre-eminence retain a renovating virtue, whence... our minds /Are nourished and invisibly repaired; / A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced, /That penetrates, enables us to mount, /When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen. -- William Wordsworth
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