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.