La vida

es una burla contínua

a nuestra ingenuidad.


NUMBERS, poem by Beatriz Iriart

To the memory of 
Itsjok Katzenelson

Don’t ask, don’t wait for an answer

Before the “beasts” we are a thing

A burden

That is hated and justified.

The shack is cold

Like winter out there.

Only the memory of homeland

Is warm and good to snooze

With that ancient flavour.

There’s no way out

Of these fields

But you can wait a “selection”

To metamorphose into a bird

Or simply wait

A shot

At random.

© Beatriz Iriart
Translation from Spanish by D.H