Like the scorpion, my brother,
You are like the scorpion
In a terror-stricken night,
Like the sparrow, my brother,
You are like the sparrow
In inconsiderable restlessness.
Like the mussel, my brother,
You are like the mussel
Closed tight and tranquil.
You are terrible, my brother,
Like the mouth of an extinguished volcano.
And you are not one, alas,
you are not five
you are some millions.
You are like the sheep, my brother,
When the butcher dressed in your wool
when the butcher lifts his Staff
you hurry yourself to get back in the flock
and you go to the slaughterhouse running, almost proud.
You are the most strange of creatures, in short,
More strange than the fish
who lives in the sea without knowing the sea,
And if there is so much misery on the earth
it is thanks to you, my brother,
If we are starved, worn out,
If we are flayed till the blood flows,
Pressed like a bunch of grapes to yield our wine,
Will I go so far as to say that it is your fault, no,
But for many it is so, my brother.
If one half of my heart, doctor,
is
here,
the other half is in China
with the army that flows
towards the Yellow River.
And, doctor, at every dawn,
at every dawn, my heart
is in Greece
being shot
by a firing squad.
And in this familiar place
when fellow-prisoners sleep
and the hospital is empty,
my heart is in a decaying villa
at Chamlija
every night,
doctor.
Let us be frank:
for the last ten years
the only thing I've been able
to
offer
to my poor country
is just an apple, doctor,
the red apple
I
call my heart
Not arterio-sclerosis,
nor nicotine, nor prison,
but that, doctor,
that's
the reason
for this angina pectoris.
I gaze at the night through the bars
and in spite of the pressure on the ribs
above
my heart,
my heart beats at the same rate
as
the farthest stars.
Night and snow on the window-panes.
The rails gleam in the white night
reminding you of going
and never coming
back.
In the third-class waiting room
a woman is lying,
her feet bare,
a black kerchief round her head.
I walk up and
down.
Night and snow on the window-panes.
Inside some people are singing -
a song my comrade loved
so
much.
His favourite song,
his favourite,
his-
Comrades, do not look into my eyes,
I am trying not to weep.
In the white night the rails gleam,
reminding you of going
and never coming
back.
A woman in a black kerchief
is lying
in the third-class
waiting-room,
her feel bare.
Night and snow on the window-panes.
Somewhere inside they are singing.
Farewell
dear friends,
farewell!
I bear you in my heart -
in the heart of my heart,
My revolt within my head.
Farewell
dear friends,
farewell!
Do not line the quay
waving handkerchiefs.
That is quite unnecessary.
To see myself reflected
in your eyes
is enough.
O friends,
fellow-workers,
comrades-in-arms!
Here is my farewell
without a single word.
Night will not bolt the door behind me,
the years will embroider cob-webs
over the windows
of
my house,
while I yell
the Prison Song
like a cry of war.
We'll meet again
dear friends,
we'll meet again.
We shall smile again under the sun,
fight once more
together,
O friends,
fellow-workers,
comrades-in-arms,
Farewell!
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