Write it. Write. In ordinary ink <br />on ordinary paper: they were given no food, <br />they all died of hunger. "All. How many? <br />It's a big meadow. How much grass <br />for each one?" Write: I don't know. <br />History counts its skeletons in round numbers. <br />A thousand and one remains a thousand, <br />as though the one had never existed: <br />an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle, <br />an ABC never read, <br />air that laughs, cries, grows, <br />emptiness running down steps toward the garden, <br />nobody's place in the line. <br /> <br />We stand in the meadow where it became flesh, <br />and the meadow is silent as a false witness. <br />Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest <br />with wood for chewing and water under the bark- <br />every day a full ration of the view <br />until you go blind. Overhead, a bird- <br />the shadow of its life-giving wings <br />brushed their lips. Their jaws opened. <br />Teeth clacked against teeth. <br />At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky <br />and reaped wheat for their bread. <br />Hands came floating from blackened icons, <br />empty cups in their fingers. <br />On a spit of barbed wire, <br />a man was turning. <br />They sang with their mouths full of earth. <br />"A lovely song of how war strikes straight <br />at the heart." Write: how silent. <br />"Yes." <br /> <br /> <br />Translated by Grazyna Drabik and Austin Flint <br /> <br />Anonymous submission.<br /><br />Wislawa Szymborska<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hunger-camp-at-jaslo/
