Harvest Song
by Simkha Shayevitch
A gray cloud
captured the sun-
From the prison
cries and songs
can be heard.
On a pine tree the sun
hangs sentenced –
the wind rocks the gallows
and a head that loved the sun.
My friend the young poet
kissed a wilted flower –
his mother leads him to the grave
tears and woe live in her breast.
A huge gray cloud
has captured summer –
The mother wept
her last tear
and died.