Harvest Song

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.

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