Easter Hymn


herder playing flute

Repeated because you asked.

Wish you all a blessed Easter.

A last meal and blessing hand

Bring us peace in holy land

Make your neighbor a best friend

Hate has no place in holy land

 Easter Blooms 1

My heart will fold as red as blood

Forgive I will my tears will flood

You were created to be good

An undivided brotherhood

 Easter Blooms 006

Lavender blue will spread in spring

It’s peace of mind that it will bring

Don’t make hate your tool of life

End your endless deeds of strife


Shout that peace is good for all

Not just you in clustered walls

Tear them down your flags of hate

They are NOT an act of faith

 Easter Blooms 008

Shaking hands across the line

Sharing meals of bread and wine

Showing trust in someone’s heart

Making one a world apart

[And keep that dagger just in case

The other earthling shows bad grace ]


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  1. 1
    Mariska Veres

    You did not say much. Though you must have glanced at the paragraph with its sensational head­ing and felt a little spurt of anger mingled with what was al­most satisfaction, as if some belief had been confirmed, as if something had happened which could only have been ex­pected. When natives steal, murder, or rape, that is the feeling white people have.
    And then they turned the page to something else.
    But the people in the ‘district’ who knew the Turners, either by sight or from gossiping about them for so many years, did not turn the page so quickly. Many must have snipped out the paragraph, put it among old letters or between the pages of a book, keeping it perhaps as an omen or a warn­ing, glancing at the yellowing piece of paper with closed, secretive faces. For they did not discuss the murder; that was the most extraordinary thing about it. It was as if they had a sixth sense which told them everything there was to be known, although the three people in a position to explain the facts said nothing. The murder was simply not discussed. ‘A bad business,’ someone would remark; and the faces of the people round about would put on that reserved and guarded look. ‘A very bad business,’ came the reply – and that was the end of it. There was, it seemed, a tacit agreement that the Turner case should not be given undue publicity by gossip. Yet it was a farming district, where those isolated white families met only very occasionally, hungry for contact with their own kind, to talk and discuss and pull to pieces, all speaking at once, making the most of an hour or so’s companionship before returning to their farms, where they saw only their own faces and the faces of their black servants for weeks on end. Normally that mur­der would have been discussed for months; people would have been positively grateful for something to talk about.

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