More day s' dispersed away
and return in the hearts of poets.
Across the fields of Poland, the flat of Kutno
with the hills of corpses burning
in clouds of steam, there are the cross
for quarantine of Israel,
the blood of waste, the torrid exanthema,
chains already dead poor has long
fulminates and were open on their hands,
Buchenwald there, the gentle forest of beech,
its furnaces cursed; Stalingrado there,
Minsk and the marshes and snow putrefactive.
Poets do not forget. Oh, the crowd of cowards,
the losers, of the mercy by forgiveness.
Quote images
Latest Added Topics
Comments