On the table – white dishes, bread and yellow apples.
And summer – beyond the opened window on the fifth floor.
Thunder and rain have quieted.
And the sun sketches
Itself round…
And a woman approaches the plaza – lighthaired and tall.
Drops of water on the roofs flashed for her.
Photographs of the holidays are ready.
These noisy, weary streets were laid with hot hands –
And the window,
calling pigeons from towers
and sparrows,
Bread-feeders,
Rising like a high melody
above ghetto fires,
requiems and ashes…
(Judita Vaiciunaite)
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