In blue gowns — like bells down to their soles,
Bound to one another's hands with rope —
They march through Hell Street of my memory,
Past the Green Bridge,
Twisted, gall-splattered huts,
Between blond rifles and genuflecting Gentiles —
They march for years and years and years
From madhouse to ghetto — sick Jews, madmen.

A boot shoved me in among them. I become
A bone of their bone. A dream of their minds.
I feel good. Good morning. Blessed are
You honest voyagers.
Dressed in the same blue gown, on my hands
A rope — it will lead us all together
To new gates, to new walls.

Such a huddling with Jews is a blessing.
Never felt such joy with Jews in my grief.
Late-summer blue. Messiah our Lord marches
With us all, in a gown blue as the Viliya.
Every head is shorn, naked,
But the face — a palette of a wild, dead painter:
Dried up, unused colors, still breathing,
A shadow of a brush dances on their skull.

Thus they march through Hell Street of my memory,
From madhouse to ghetto — madmen, in an alien
Otherworldliness, in long blue gowns,
They march for years and years and years.

And I thank today, as then, for the honor
To be chained with the lowest of the low,
Marching on the pavement to the ghetto and the bonfire,
Further away,
To be further away
From Germans.

1966