A good friend sent this poem by Bertolt Brecht from his iPhone. He translated it himself from the German. It is beautiful.

Early on this Easter Sunday, a sudden snowstorm swept over this
island. Snow lay over the budding hedges.
My little son took me over to a little apricot tree by the house wall,
away from my verses, in which I point a finger at those who were
preparing a war that must destroy this continent, and this island, my
people and my family and me.
Speechlesss, we placed a sack around the freezing tree.

— B. Brecht, Easter Sunday, 1935
tr. H. Lowengard, 2008