The soil is hard.
When the wind quietens down a little in the evening
a few broken twigs remain
and a ripped undershirt on the rocks.
Death has walked many times on this ground.
These holes in the rocks
are made by the nails of his shoes
these holes in the heart are made the same way.
The stars multiply every evening
they resemble some dates, signatures, half told words,
hasty messages — we read them every evening
as we read the names of the fighters on
a prison wall.
The eyes of this comrade resemble two smoked stones
like those stones in the desolation of the evening
when a bunch of emigres boil their dandelions.
The eyes of the other comrade resemble the fire
between two blackened rocks,
the other’s eyes are the same
something great is cooked in those two eyes.