(Cont.d)with the voice
of suffering women
who wear mourning all their lives;
with the voice of the train
taking away as always
the best of our youth.
And you call me
with the cry,
the cry of fallen poplars,
despondent, their roots in the sun,
and their leaves as white and still and cold
as the face of a corpse.
You call me: and in my heart
I hear the age old sound of chopping,
the chopping of the foreign ax
in your devastated forests.
Earth, the wind
brings me the neighing of horses
laden, poor things, with coal,
laden, poor things, with shame,
swift horses that once won trophies
in all the village festivals.