EASTER SUNDAY by Bertold Brecht

Today, Easter Sunday morning
a sudden snowstorm swept over the island.
Between the greening hedges lay snow.
My young son drew me
to a little apricot tree by the house wall
away from a verse
in which I pointed the finger at those
who were preparing a war which
could well wipe out the continent, this island,
my people, my family
and myself.
In silence
we put a sack
over the freezing tree.‎