With quiet signs from afar
At dusk the mournful wagons come
The doors stand ajar,
But nobody is waiting to welcome.
The town is peaceful, bells of silence pealing
Every beaten gra**blade kneeling
Beneath the blazing cool.
A few sickly Jews crawl down from each wagonbed
And a word of wisdom totters
In every brooding head.
God on Thy scale of good and evil
Set a plate of some warm porridge
Or maybe spare
A fistful of oats, at least, for the skinny horses.
The village deadness darkens in the air.
A greusome quiet seizes Jewish beards
As each sees in the other's eyes how prayer
Shudders with a special fear.
When d**h does come,
Let me not remain alive alone.