P O E T R Y

We can neither expiate nor rectify

the mistakes and misery of that April.

The bowed shoulders of a conscience awakened

must bear the burden of torment for life.

It's impossible, believe me,

to overpower

or overhaul

our pain for the lost home.

Pain will endure in the beating hearts

stamped by the memory of fear.

There,

surrounded by prickly bitterness,

our puzzled town asks:

since it loves us

and forgives everything,

why was it abandoned forever?

At night, of course, our town

though emptied forever, comes to life.

There, our dreams wander like clouds,

illuminate windows with moonlight.

live by unwavering memories,

remember the touch of hands.

How bitter for them to know

there will be no one for their shade

to protect from the scorching heat!

At night their branches quietly rock

our inflamed dreams.

Stars thrust down

onto the pavement,

to stand guard until morning . . .

But the hour will pass . . .

Abandoned by dreams,

the orphaned houses

whose windows

have gone insane

will freeze and bid us farewell! . . .

We've stood over our ashes;

now what do we take on our long journey?

The secret fear that wherever we go

we are superfluous?

The sense of loss

that revealed the essence

of a strange and sudden kinlessness,

showed that our calamity is not

shared by those who might, one day,

themselves face annihilation?

. . . We are doomed to be left behind by the flock

in the harshest of winters . . .

You, fly away!

But when you fly off

don't forget us, grounded in the field!

And no matter to what joyful faraway lands

your happy wings bear you,

may our charred wings

protect you from carelessness.