| Popis: |
My wretched father, your sons' blood on your lips And ravenous hunger gnawing your insides . . . Tell me, what do you feel when you hear our bones Crumble between your teeth? When your fingers break Open our breasts? When you see a heart, naked. Steaming in your palm? Do your grim eyes suspect How your sons pity you? We tended cattle, Sowed wheat, we made your table groan With the weight of the loaves. On grudging rocks We planted grapevines, so the wine Could drown your thirst. Together with us, your sons, You could forget your hunger if you let us live. But udders swell with torture. No one to milk the cows. In the fields, without herdsmen, oxen stray. No one to mow grain sprouting in the ear, And fruit unharvested, so ripe it bursts. Now my blood, too, flows down your chin . . . When you run out of sons, Father, what then? [1963] |
