Distract me, my native fields,
From all that has happened to me,
The abyss that swallowed my loved ones
Deserters call and wave their sacks
at the carriage bound for Petersburg.
What can I name my grief, again, today?
A nickel frozen in the sidewalk?
A tumbling paper bag?
“It’s not too late, you can still look back
at the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed.”