III

The sturdy Ghetto children

March by the parade,

Waving their toy flags,

Prancing to the bugles —

Lusty, unafraid...

Shaking little fire sticks

At the night —

The old blinking night —

Swerving out of the way,

Wrapped in her darkness like a shawl.

But a small girl

Cowers apart.

Her braided head,

Shiny as a black-bird's

In the gleam of the torch-light,

Is poised as for flight.

Her eyes have the glow

Of darkened lights.

She stammers in Yiddish,

But I do not understand,

And there flits across her face

A shadow

As of a drawn blind.

I give her an orange,

Large and golden,

And she looks at it blankly.

I take her little cold hand and try to draw her to me,

But she is stiff...

Like a doll...

Suddenly she darts through the crowd

Like a little white panic

Blown along the night —

Away from the terror of oncoming feet...

And drums rattling like curses in red roaring mouths...

And torches spluttering silver fire

And lights that nose out hiding-places...

To the night —

Squatting like a hunchback

Under the curved stoop —

The old mammy-night

That has outlived beauty and knows the ways of fear —

The night — wide-opening crooked and comforting arms,

Hiding her as in a voluminous skirt.

The sturdy Ghetto children

March by the parade,

Waving their toy flags,

Prancing to the bugles,

Lusty, unafraid.

But I see a white frock

And eyes like hooded lights

Out of the shadow of pogroms

Watching... watching...