Stalks Poem by Abraham Sutzkever

Two years I longed for stalks,
Silent stalks in a familiar field.
When I struggled in the vise
That caught me
And blocked
The road,
The green road to those stalks —
But not the stalks in the familiar field.

And when my breath melted the vise —
A wind in my veins
Whistled and called:
— 'Get up, son of man, the stalks are ripe.
Now your own body is like a stalk.'
And as fate walks, so walked I
Through burned cities
To that call.

But when I came, weary, through the sunset,
I reached my longed-for field —
They lay there, my brothers,
Killed over the field.
And the stalks with glowing spears,
Layer upon layer, grew through
The skulls, the ribs,

And climbed higher, higher, higher,
o the sun that gathers back its light,
As if each stalk rushed to overtake
The others.
One stalk
Went wandering
Through a mouth with clenched teeth!
Two stalks crept through shoulders.
And there, a stalk searching for a way —
A hand reaching out of the earth.
And a cornflower through an eye, weeping —

What do I see now in the evening light?
I see a field with stalks, blood red.
And rushing to me closer, comes a mower
And mows the afterwar fresh bread.

Narocz Forest, September 1943