I

A long arm of fire
Burst the gates of the ghetto.

A blind beggar, the day
Stands at the corner
Of an old wall,
Weeping pennies in his fists.

He would shake the old gates,
Bring down the walls,
Like imprisoned Samson
The marble columns,
And fall with the ghetto!

(Oh gates — wailing moons,
Caressed
By the fingers of my thoughts!)

This is the truth of the knife.
From green roofs
Stars take off —
Homeless children,
And hear
The fever of a mute generation.
A generation of fighters, singers, and hoodlums.

This is the truth of the knife.
In shards of windowpanes
The sun is a red toadstool.
Every face an autumn leaf,
Chains — every sound,
Unrest
Slithers up like a serpent —
Over roofs,
Over gates,
Higher!

II

An organ-grinder like a Purim clown
Clamors on his sick instrument.
A cross-eyed yellow parrot
Wobbles on his bony hands.
The man is a singer too
And he intones
A ballad flashing in your ear:
'Seven brothers slaughtered in the pogrom,
The eighth one fell at the gate.'

Children touch
The dusty organ-grinder.
And he who cranks the song
And the children — blue and naked,
Along with the parrot
And the little water carrier
Carrying his prayer in a cracked bucket —
All tangled up
In a magic ring,
Each a mirror for the other.

III

But sometimes, the ghetto rocks in a trance,
Violet windows sway in a dance.

Through thin golden dust, like a brook in a valley,
Blue-eyed youngsters flooding the alley.

Sleeves rolled up, strong arms like a steeple:
'From their own ghetto, we shall free the people!'

The echo falls on the houses like thunder,
The ancient walls are amazed at the wonder.

A blinding flash. Eyes rising and bright.
And sounds reach out like bridges of light …

The alleys huddle, fearful and gray
Watching the blood of freedom's day.

A blinding flash. Extinguished the light.
The golden vision has vanished from sight …

IV

Evening. The ghetto turns blue.
Hot colors take their course.
The Gaon appears in the shul-yard
From behind copper doors.

A girl sits on a stoop,
Inhales the letters of a book.
Dreams of a rare pleasure:
Bread and shoes in her nook.

The shadows grow thick and wide.
Like a peacock, the sun will depart.
A youth pulls a knife like a beam
Out of his boottop's heart.

The moon would have fit in this scene.
Aha! she's lurking in wait.
But it seems, a bullet-torn flag
Rises behind a gate …