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...