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
