Shabbat X

Dry, always dry, and never enough to overcome cracking lips and fading voices that suffer from an unsatisfied thirst. All day long, as glasses of water stand on the table unused, as spectacular glasses mist from the pain of disuse, the more violent voices rush in and tear at the body of the one with no courage. So the spirit is left with a shell of a home, a house that is swiftly collapsing under the pain of a solitary murder.

They say, "Shut the gates before the flood kills us all!" But the water continues to rush into the city. The people look to the sky for answers, but all they find are poisoned arrows dropping down into the chest of the crowd, into the hearts of the children. And as the arrows strike, as the poison burns into the flesh and soul, a vague, screaming voice is heard, followed by a laugh, and covering their ears, everyone does all that is left. They cry—they cry and they feel pain. And not unlike the illumination of light, the culprit is seen clearly: violence has tricked them again.

"Assyria, you sold me to Babylon again!" The one with no courage now realizes and is ashamed. No wonder courage fled when thirst mounted war-horses to rush towards the ruthless enemy. The retaliation, the trick, should have been obvious, as it had been seen before. But no—and now, the resolution at hand, take the glass of water and drink. The bleeding tears of violence are now healed over.