The Ailing Poet To His Friend Poem by Abraham Sutzkever

Music of torments.
Who is the conductor?
For whom do they play a crescendo?
Later, will any hands applaud?
Who are they? And who the conductor?
I want to see him!

Even a murderer under lock and key
Is not denied his last wish.
I want to see the conductor!
His baton is a knife.

Just the knife is real.
The past — a splendid superstition.
Faces of clay in the black hall
Have gone to a different zone.
She' s no longer she: a separate beam.
In my heart, I call her: my widow.

Day and night the conductor waves.
In his footprints,
My childhood arrives,
Dressed up in silver manuscripts.

Will any hands really
Applaud —
I do not know. If I could only
Give you a sign: tomorrow
You will know whose
Greeting or crippled hands.

Day and night the conductor waves.

1966