Before the time of cords and scourges and lamentation
Grant us thy peace.
Before the stations of the mountain of desolation,
Before the certain hour of maternal sorrow,
Now at this birth season of decease,
Let the Infant, the still unspeaking and unspoken Word,
Grant Israel's consolation
To one who has eighty years and no to-morrow.

Бомбы падали на Тель Авив. Мы спускались в убежище. Дети играли, муж дремал, я читала стихи Томаса Элиота.

Гениальные, вечные, прекрасные стихи Элиота помогли мне сохранить ясность мысли и жажду жизни.

War is not a life: it is a situation,
One which may neither be ignored nor accepted,
A problem to be met with ambush and stratagem,
Enveloped or scattered.