On Your Grave.
(A memorial to Comrade Meir Gutman).
With how much sorrow my song was soaked, how much pain oppressed my spirit, when the sad news of your death came to me; with trembling, fear and terror I accompanied you on your way, when eternity took you. My every limb was frozen when the coffin passed, your body resting in it; a tear ran down from my eye, it melted straight into darkness, and blood dripped from my heart. When the first shovel of sand lay on your hand, my heart was pressed tight;
when among all the graves I saw you, poor and wretched, a rope choked my throat. I clenched my fist in anger: who hastened your death, after what was the great sacrifice? Who needed your death, who sharpened the nails, why did you die away from us? But who looks at grieving souls — I will ask no more questions, for I will get no answer anyway. Calmly I stand on your grave, grief presses on every limb; I leave a wreath of flowers lying here.
Tel Aviv.