Among the blight-killed eucalypts， among

    trees and bushes rusted¹ by Christmas frosts，

    the yards and hillsides exhausted² by five years of drought，

    certain airy white blossoms punctually

    reappeared， and dense³ clusters of pale pink， dark pink——

    a delicate abundance. They seemed

    like guests arriving joyfully⁴ on the accustomed

    festival day， unaware⁵ of the year's events， not perceiving

    the sackcloth others were wearing.

    To some of us， the dejected landscape consorted⁶ well

    with our shame and bitterness. Skies ever-blue，

    daily sunshine， disgusted us like smile-buttons.

    Yet the blossoms， clinging to thin branches

    more lightly than birds alert for flight，

    lifted the sunken heart

    even against its will.

    But not

    as symbols of hope： they were flimsy

    as our resistance to the crimes committed

    ——again， again——in our name； and yes， they return，

    year after year， and yes， they briefly⁷ shone with serene⁸ joy

    over against the dark glare

    of evil days. They are， and their presence

    is quietness ineffable——and the bombings are， were，

    no doubt will be； that quiet， that huge cacophany

    simultaneous. No promise was being accorded， the blossoms

    were not doves， there was no rainbow. And when it was claimed

    the war had ended， it had not ended.