With Nostrils Of Dogs Poem by Abraham Sutzkever

The shard-hunters — this is my company.
At midnight, we begin to advance
From the Red Sea, the coral inn,
In the rhythm of old caravans.

The shard-hunters lurk. In their
Primeval memory, emerges from the deep
The morning doe, as if a bride forgot
To remove her veil before a sleep.

And evoking in the same memory:
A sliver of a jar, a pot,
Where dead great-grandfathers grind rye
To leave for their grandchild — on this spot.

Thirstier for pebbles than for springs,
Nostrils of dogs with fine sense and measure,
Advancing through a wadi, they attack
The shards of its stolen treasure.