The sky’s rouge
drew back
beneath their steps
overgrown with the sidewalks,
mingled with the dust of asphalts.
They entered the grey.
The street is lonely,
sundered from the sapphire sky:
between them, a violet-hued cloud
and a red brick wall.
The street is a band of grey stone
with lots of steps.
People are enveloped in love,
as in deep grass or bitter hay.
Hard soldier-squares march
along the street from a scenic pink postcard,
the rouge of the sky drawing back beneath them
with numbered ringing metallic steps.
They will have a tough fate:
musty long march routes,
naked expanses where wild roses
bloom in papery pink paleness;
they will have
torn bellies and lips
and feet stuffed into green shoes,
the shoes of Van Gogh’s paintings.
Like the music of the train lost in grey
in the evening.
Unique as a grey pearl,
useless as a sigh and a tear.
Soldiers marching pensively,
soldiers in watery-green shoes.
Little soldiers from scenic pink postcards,
you are needed.
Beneath you the rouge draws back
into the lonely street
with the red wall on one side
and lots of steps.
Translated by Miri Koral
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