The Fortress Poem by Abraham Sutzkever

I

The fortress is old,
So gloomily old,
Its dust — crumbled stars.
The grandfathers molded its hidden mold
Of clay soaked in tears.

Half a milennium, they built and built —
Oh, distant grandfathers,
Patient and great!

Bones kneaded into the walls
Stand guard —
Witnesses of fate.

Hear their voice:

Recover
Your trace,
Ignite
The steel,
Unite
The race.

A wall against fear and a wall to endure,
In the fortress, your own body immure!

II

At night the fortress is dark,
Only the glow of hate.
The street lost its tongue —
Galloping steps of fate.

But deep under iron and clay
Layers are moved in the night:
In secret, they drill and they build,
Through channels, traces of light.

A second fortress they dig,
In stormy rage — a mine.
And wicks feverish, ready
To ignite for the battle a sign.

Vilna Ghetto, July 14, 1943