I met Vasily Grossman in Berlin.
He stood surrounded by a ring of flames,
his glasses all fogged up, and still he wrote,
and smiled as if I were his oldest friend.
Your tall blond corpse lies rotting in a field --
white daisies grow around your polished boots,
dried blood is leaking from your Roman nose,
your stiffened hand still clutches a revolver.
I dug a skull up one September day
and asked whom it belonged to, how it got there.
It didn't answer. A butterfly took wing
from deep inside its empty, endless eye.
A happy and a sweet new year to all
who outran history, and those who didn't.
Write me a telegram from Pluto's realm
and I'll send back pressed flowers for Proserpine.