It is not just because my words quiver
Like broken hands grasping for aid,
Or that they sharpen themselves
Like teeth on the prowl in darkness,
That you, my written word, substitute for my world,
Flare up the coals of my anger.
It is because your sounds
glint like burnt pearls
discovered in an extinguished pyre
and no one—not even I—shredded by time
can recognize the woman drenched in flame
for all that remains of her now
are those grey pearls
smoldering in the ash.
—Abraham Sutzkever, Vilna Ghetto, July 28, 1943