Poetry

Footsteps follow a cat
on snowy streets
near the central station
shadowing Warsaw's night
 
In a half asleep city
no one sees either of you
stretching silence
by sweet shop windows
 
Everything disappears
even milk for the cat
moonlight hides
a few ragged strangers
 
Deportations rise
every quarter of an hour
with dawn's finality
on brownshirted platforms
 
Angels are not welcome
on your shaved head era
when beasts seize beauty
on a pile of books
 
Disorder takes on
a life of its own
but you, Wislawa
will have a keepsake.