![]() My wife carried the poems through all the horrors and tragedies. This way I hid from the Snatchers who dragged off every Jewish male they could find. I wrote them lying stuck in a broken chimney in my old apartment on Wilkomirska Street 14. Approximately between June 25 and July 5. I wrote the nine poems of "Faces in Swamps" in the first 10 days, when the Plague marched into Vilna. The manuscript contains nine poems with the following note in the poet's hand: Subsequently, it was hidden in a ghetto cellar and discovered forty-nine years later in Vilnius. The cycle, "Faces in Swamps," was written in hiding during the first days of the Nazi occupation of Vilna. Reminds me of my fate, she's close to me, On spungolden horseshoes the autumn is galloping through.Ī wind with red blood on its fingers gropes every hueĪnd sings over fields a sad drunken ballad of old.Ī gypsy band huddles together like sheep in a fold. Will see us in dreams and will tell of our colorful tale. ![]() Till the wintery snow covers up every spark, every trace.įor then there will be in this world no more gypsy race,Īnd only the howling wide steppe and the trees in the vale Let us plait burning thorns into wreathes on our head, let them spin We shall be extinguished, die out, like the sparks of our fire. To our gypsy race. We shall sink in abyss and expire, Hey brothers, dear brothers, I see how the end's coming near Till you yourself go down in the late sun.Įntwine me in their branching fantastics, Grinding legends, grinding the wind on the run, A lady sheaf, strolling by in the light -Ī bridegroom leads his bride where a cloudįaithfully makes them a bed for the night.īut a windmill is already grinding their sunset,
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