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...
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