The Sewers Poem by Abraham Sutzkever

We were just ten of us in underground,
Each of the shadows' dreams cut us asunder.
The darkness slashed me with an ancient sword,
With copper vaults, with dark medieval wonder.
Little by little, in each moving shadow
I smelled myself — the part of me I lack.
I tasted of his mind, kneaded myself in him,
My world did not so gloomily wail back.
And as I yearned for Vega and for Sirius —
They flashed before my eyes, bright and mysterious.

And like the pupil of my eye, growing familiar
With all the dark, has nimbly turned it into
White light that window-covered our black lair,
Where the reflections of a thousand splinter
Rivulets waved — so an outlandish force
Has wrestled with the dreadful stench, abhorring,
And finally exchanged it, as forever,
For scent of fresh mown hay on a cool morning,
For scent of Friday nights, of rolls with cream,
That each of us still savored in his dream.

The sewers, channels, pipes are different,
Like highways, roads, and lanes in forests deep.
(We shall discuss it clearly in its place.)
Most times the water is subdued, you creep
Out for a 'stroll.' In raintime, it will rise
With shrieks and whistles like a witch's song,
Flow over through oblique cracks, slits, and holes
Into the 'storm canal,' neck-slim and long,
Roaring under the broadest street, it goes.
Galloping like a horde of buffalos

And thundering down into another stream,
Runs into the Viliya. Brotherly
Accompanied by various side pipes, branching
From under narrow streets that suddenly
Contribute to the flood in time of rain.
The flow brings from all backstreet yards
Eternal filth like an infernal fire,

Strikes on your swooning brow — hard, stinking shards.
At night a smaller stream, mute, barely born,
The pipes — they gurgle soft like organs torn.

And in a pipe where 'Springs of Vingree Street'
Flow all together, sweeping their discards,
And branch out underground as stammering strings,
There in a pipe not wide, three-quarter yards,
Above the junction — hollowed out a moon,
A hole in metal ceiling. Through the hole
You can creep in, without the slightest danger,
Into a cavern, walk erect and bold.
This is our own, dug out and safe Malina.
We dwell here under wings of the Shekhina.

Who are the 'we' that secretly inhabit
The water palaces that may astound?
I'll modestly describe here all the figures.
I'll tell the truth as witnessed underground:
Elul, five thousand seven hundred three.
No Jews in Vilna. The last transports left
Not to return, to sounds of autumn wailing.
The Teacher Gdalye jumped out through a cleft,
Searched for a hiding, slid down to this trench.
Slid down — and fraternized with all the stench.

Next morning — he encountered someone, Folye,
With him his mother, the leaseholder Esther,
And plaited close his further lot with theirs.
The mama, used to dark holes that would nest her,
Crept out of swampy night into the air
And gathered among ruins, empty houses,
Trampled potatoes scattered in the mud
And peas. Her generosity arouses
Our praise for all the presents that she shares.
There is a lot to tell of all her cares.

Meanwhile, there came Arona, refugee
From Hamburg, does not like our Yiddish speech,
He sees the language as the greatest danger,
Caresses his own fate in cotton. Each
A character. The water roared and thundered
(A sign that in the city rain is falling),
And brought, as on a swaying motorcycle
Of waves, a guy out of the blue came calling.
He leaps down from the saddle, like hot news:
'I'm Doctor Lippman! You don't know me, Jews?'

And then they found in a calm, far-off corner,
Where only moon-mice splash and moon-bats hover,
A man enshrouded in his tfillin bands,
His countenance — the face of a cadaver.
His locks slathered with lime. Instead of clothes —
His body wrapped in parchment. The hermit Nathan.
Perhaps an angel pointed out the secret
Where Jews hide in the earth, to show his faith in
His fate. The parchment letters worn outside,
Their meaning is unknown here, far and wide.

Meanwhile did Esther, 'hunting' for some food,
Bring from outside a shining ray of fate,
A girl, chased in a free-for-all domain.
Her name is Debby. Then, under a grate,
Did Deborah discover a blind man.
And later came to our retreat, in fear,
A pregnant woman, escaped from a mass grave
With snow-white hair. We call her Kreyne here,
Her story will be told, but where and when?
And I was number ten. A group of ten.

The city sank. The world is topsy-turvy.
A dozen buried characters remained
Where just a moldy demon lurks in wait.
But right before our lips, hope moved unchained,
An unseen rose … incessantly it called,
Winking and beckoning with mystery of hues,
Opened a morn in morning. But before you could
Touch with your fingers her delicate dews —
The rose has vanished. It glimmers from afar,
On the far side of death, a shining star.