Poem – Primo Levi
Singing … But when we began to sing Our songs, senseless and good, It seemed then that everything Stood as it once had stood. The days were merely days. Seven made a week. Killing we thought was wicked. Of dying we didn’t think. The months sped by so fast, With too many to come for complaints! Again we were only young: Not martyrs, the shamed, or saints. We had these thoughts and others As long as we could sing. But it’s all hard to explain, Being a cloudlike thing.
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Tagged with: Autumn 2019
, Issue 125
Posted in Poem