Untitled
by Simkha Shayevitch
The sun has captured –
sounds from the prison
of cries and songs.
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 –
Mother is taking her son to be buried
and cries out the pain in her breast.
A huge cloud
has captured summer.