A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Come to classroom, padre, while the students
are not yet gathered for their next assignment.
Come with me, padre, I will show you something
for which I beg you to donate a moment.

Your brothers, padre! See, — upon the tables —

laid out and all prepared to be dissected.
Oh, yours and mine. Just shut the door now, quiet…
The overburdened, very good professor
is right now having one last cup of coffee
within the fold of his distinguished household.

There — long, grey-white ones. How they must have worried

and how they must be cold in this dank classroom.
This is my thought (— will you forgive me, padre,
for buttonholing you between the wardroom s
where you disseminated consolation —)

— This is my thought: perhaps they had no kinfolk

to say goodbye and tuck them in for sleeping.
Perhaps you missed them as they lay there dying.
You and your colleagues; stand here in the doorway
and make a sign above these proud dead people,
say a few words, — because you have connections —
to make it dignified, this their departure,
as their last bell rings and their train pulls out.

(This is not the beginning:)

The quiet one are lying on their tables,
all wrapped in white, all swaddled white like babies
(born just a life ago, just a life, — whither is it gone
now, that they are speechless, motionless,
sightless, loveless, selfless?)

Suddenly a fire alarm sounds.

Noiselessly then the people wrapped in white,

white-swaddled, shoeless, soundless, faceless, warily
step one by one onto the fire escape
and slither down, procession wise, to safety
one after one, pouring from out their window
winding lightly down, white sheets that wrap them trailing;

down the black crooked iron stairway

comes the procession, in disorted angels
showing no faces —
to escape the fire.
piched the ground, the earth, the safety,
And, having reached the ground, the earth, the safety
they stop and stand and stare in scared amazement —
What do they do now? Whither do they slither?
Now they are safe, in what direction do they turn?

1958

535. Imitation [239]