Yannis Ritsos
Dressed in black and the ethereal — her footsteps went unheard.
She walked through the portico. No lights on. As she climbed
the stone steps, they shouted, "Halt!" Her face
a white mist in the darkness. Beneath her apron,
she was hiding a violin. "Who's there!" She didn't speak.
She stopped dead; hands raised, with that violin
clutched between her knees. She was smiling.
June 15, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
No comments:
Post a Comment