Mariza Koch (b. 1944)
An orange grove, oh Mother
Where olive trees have grown from end to end
Whilst all around them seashores are shining like gold
And you are dazzled, dazzled by the glaring sun
When you go to that place, Mother
If you happen to see any tents, tents in a row
Those won’t be a camping site for tourists, Mother
Those will be refugees, only refugees
Holy Mother, console my heart!
Holy Mother, console my heart!
And if you see any charred ruins, Mother
Don’t think that they belong to a different era
They’ll have been burnt by napalm, Mother
They’ll be yesterday’s massive piles of debris
And if you see a plot of land freshly dug up
It won’t be a fertile field, Mother
It’ll be meant for grave crosses to be planted in
And be decomposed, decomposed by time
Holy Mother, console my heart!
Holy Mother, console my heart!
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