O! street, o street . . .
Of cities above which hovers the Cross;
Your windows glisten and shine
Like cat’s pupils hunting mice.
The crowd of passersby, in mourning black
(The color of the Stoics*),
Heat rising, they duck
Each other and squawk.
Two gestures, two moves – just two:
Of producers, chasing something in gloom,
And of those with freshly cut paychecks,
Delighting in their boon . . .
Two visions, two convulsions:
Of heaven purchased ahead
And of factory men’s elation –
Over a morsel of bread.
– An Arab walks, with the nod of a cleric’s brow,
Radiant amid the sullen crowd;
White – like an ivory statue –
I’ll gaze at him . . . will rest my eye!
A funeral cortege drifts into side streets
With an unhurried stride;
I’ll follow in its wake, idle my gestures,
Idle – my eye! . . .
Or – avoiding my brethren’s open-scarred cheeks –
Upward I’ll lose my thoughts:
– In the azure a balloon brightly beams,
And between clouds? . . . the Cross!
* Black was adopted by Christians from the Stoics.