They are still coming
coming at night to take me away
and I run out of the lighted house
down empty streets, dogs barking,
whistles, leather voices of men.
I run pushed by a panic so strong
that I see my shadow fleeing
before me, white and transparent
in the moonlight.
Yet I am running with another
a companion, shuffling in his rag-
covered feet, his long black coat
his shadow gigantic in the search
lights, and I whisper to him
hoarsely in the dark
run . . . run . . . they are coming.
At dawn we are still moving
paralysed in a white light
over marshes, between thick
fleshy stalks, the menace
rising from the ground
pressing from above
tighter and tighter.
Just the companion, silent,
faceless, crunching through
the weeds, weighed with
this speechless suffering
the burden of these deaths.