On my mother's house
Thorns grow —
Yesterday's mad, piercing gazes!
And I —
In their thorniness I dwell.
I seek my meaning
In black thorns.

I feel my mother's spirit
Hanging on the thorns —
The black thorns are now my Psalms.
At dusk,
When only dews know no tears,
I climb up to them,
Aching with devotion,
And my lips — clouds over words,
Prattle up a homey moon.

To him
Who planted the black thorns
I pray:
Plant me too like them,
I want to live here,
This is good, is good.

I undress.
Start dancing,
Dancing,
Dancing,
Till the thorns flower with my blood.

I want to live here,
This is good, is good.

Vilna, May 1945